


Harsh Realms

by randomsquare



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Captain Swan AU - Freeform, Colleagues - Freeform, F/M, Modern AU, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 14:38:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 67,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13882968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomsquare/pseuds/randomsquare
Summary: Crime reporter, Emma Swan's star is on the rise. So when she is suddenly fired in a "corporate restructuring", she doesn't take it all that well. Cue the drinking. The daytime TV. The unexpected offer to man the phones of her brother's best friend's floundering PI firm. With rent past due, and options limited, Emma agrees. How hard could working for Killian Jones be? CS Modern AU.





	1. Destitution, Despair, and Dr Phil

**A/N: To be perfectly honest, I ripped the idea of this story straight from a webseries I once wrote, but never made. But I loved the characters too much to see them fade away into obscurity. So here you go. May they live on in your hearts.  
**

 

Emma Swan had gotten some pretty crappy letters in her time.

There was the time in fourth grade when a letter had been slipped inside her pencil case from the boy she liked, professing his undying love for her in the form of a "Roses are Red, Violets are Blue" type poem. Of course, it later turned out not to have been from him at all, but a particularly vindictive little nine year old called Andie, who'd been out to embarrass her. Which, naturally, Emma only discovered once she'd... written him back...

And then there were the cards that had been jammed into her mailbox every month since she'd moved in, from her elderly downstairs neighbors. They came on this ornate card stock, with this super fancy calligraphy script kindly informing her that if she didn't learn to control her dog, they were going to write to the council to petition to get it put down. Every month without fail, she'd find another one stuffed in between her electricity bill and her newest copy of Real Crime.

Emma. Didn't. Even. Own. A. Dog.

She didn't even  _like_ dogs.

So yes, Emma had been on the receiving end of some craptastic letters in her time; just truly terrible examples of human correspondence. But at least some effort had been made! Andie had thought to paste star stickers with smiley faces on her fake love letter. Even the constant threats to the continued existence of her (mythical) canine companion were almost worth it for the quality of penmanship alone.

But when Emma Swan finally received the the worst letter of her life, there weren't any decorative motifs to blunt the news. Just a crumpled envelope with her name scribbled on it in blue ballpoint pen, unceremoniously jammed into her in-tray whilst she had been in the break room, fixing her fourth cup of coffee for the day.

Even an e-mail would have been preferable.

But no.

* * *

_Dear Miss Swan,_

_It is with regret that we inform you, that due to recent structural changes within our company, your position as a Journalist within our company has become untenable, and you have been let go. We would ask you to clear your work space by the end of the day._

_This decision is not a reflection of your work performance or work ethic, and you should not consider it as such. You have been a valued member of our staff._

_Our newspaper has worked hard to adapt to the challenges of an industry-wide shift to 24 hour, online reporting. As such, it has become necessary to downsize our print media division to allow for a greater focus on our new media departments._

_Blah blah blah, We wish you all the best, blah blah blah are happy to provide references blah blah see attached pages for severance blah blah blah._

* * *

So... that happened.

Which might explain how the Boston Sentinel's former rising star crime reporter, Emma Swan, came to be lazing on her couch at around about Ellen time, having just consumed an entire packet of Oreos. Or three.

Okay, so maybe all this wasn't  _entirely_ unexpected. Her newspaper, The Boston Sentinel, a bastion of well-researched, hard-hitting journalism in an age of click-bait gossip mongers, had been bought out by a particularly evil multinational a few months ago.

_You know the one._

And ever since that fated day, Emma had seen more and more "editorial suggestions" popping up in her inbox. The kind she usually tended to delete without reading.

She remembered one such "suggestion" from her Editor, the beleaguered Sidney Glass, that she had stupidly opened after she ran a piece on drug abuse within the police department, thinking it might be, god forbid, praise for a job well done. Instead, the email informed her in no uncertain terms that the paper's new "editorial culture" was much more interested in reporting on low-level street crime, as it directly affected citizens, rather than on "top-down conspiracy theories."

She'd helped to spearhead an internal review of drug abuse in the public service, and they wanted her to cover muggings on the T?

Apparently.

So here she was. On the couch. Out of a job. To be quickly followed by the inevitable descent into destitution, despair, and Dr. Phil.

It was about then that the sugar high of the Oreos began to wear off, to be replaced with a cold grip of panic tightening around her throat.

She couldn't be unemployed! She had expenses!

She had rent to pay! She had a wayward brother to keep on the straight and narrow! She had an Agatha Christie book club subscription! She had houseplants to look after! She cast a sideways glance at the wilted fern which sat on the end table, begging to be put out of its misery. Okay. So maybe not so much with the houseplants. Still. She had a gym membership! That she fully intended to use one day! A Starbucks habit! A Netflix subscription! A burning desire to not screw up everything she'd worked so hard for!

That was when her heart truly sank.

_She was fucked.  
_

* * *

Technically speaking, Emma did have a roommate. Contrary to popular belief, a fledgling career in print journalism does not get you a two bedroom apartment in Mission Hill, without having to share a bathroom with someone. And the person Emma shared custody of her hairdryer with? None other than her brother, August. Not her real brother, exactly. Not by blood, and certainly not by law. Only in all the other ways that mattered. But he hadn't been around to watch Emma's downward spiral, seeing as he was currently on some sojourn of a dubious nature to Vietnam. Or was it Laos? Somewhere tropical, anyway, where the idea of stepping on an active landmine was more than a fleeting concern.

August did that a lot. Just packed a bag and took off. Officially, he was a freelance journalist, with his work appearing in a number of magazines and blogs, so it wasn't like he had a steady job to stick around for. Emma still suspected he sometimes came up with his half of the rent in slightly more creative ways, which weren't always, strictly speaking, legal. And though prying was her specialty, there were some things she was willing to remain ignorant about when it came to August. All she knew, was that now and then he went off and did questionable things with questionable people, and Emma's only clue as to his whereabouts would be a cryptic postcard arriving in the mail, depicting some exotic locale. It was frustrating.  _He_ was frustrating. But no matter what, he  _always_  came back. It's what separated him from the rest.

She hadn't seen him in five weeks.

It had been two weeks since she'd been fired.

That's 14 days.

10 Episodes of Ellen.

10 Episodes of Dr Phil.

10 Episodes of Dr. Oz

More golf than should ever be watched by someone under the age of 65, who couldn't even say what a birdie was, let alone an albatross.

After 14 days of pseudo-psychology from an evangelistic Texan with suspiciously white teeth, Emma had to face facts. Daytime television wasn't the answer. It couldn't be. So she went searching for a new answer. One she found sitting under a thin layer of dust, right at the back of the cereal cupboard, behind a box of Cheerios that had passed their use by date sometime back in 2013. Right where she left it.

Frangelico.

This particular bottle hailed from their housewarming party, back when they'd first moved into the apartment. She couldn't remember exactly who'd given it to her, the night had been such a blur. It might have been a gift from her boyfriend at the time, Walsh. He'd never really been one to take her own tastes and opinions into account. Which explained why it was two years later, he had long since been kicked to the curb, and Emma only just remembered she had it.

She'd never really considered herself a fan of hazelnut liqueur. But after four liberal glasses over ice, she was beginning to see the appeal. In fact, everything in her life had begun to take on a warm, fuzzy consistency by the time the knock came on her apartment door. So much so that she had already risen shakily to her feet and reached out to flick open the deadbolt, before she realized that she was still dressed in her pajamas at 5pm, and hadn't washed her hair since Monday.

The knock sounded again, a little more insistent this time.

Not August. He had a key. And even if he'd left it on a bus somewhere in the Golden Triangle, which would not be viciously out of character, he would at least try to pick the lock before he considered knocking. He always forgot about the deadbolt.

Nor had she ordered in, though suddenly the idea of some cold sesame noodles was starting to sound pretty good.

Who else would dare interrupt Emma in the middle of her pity party?

Curiosity getting the best of her, Emma stepped forward to peer through the peephole at her unexpected guest.

It was Killian Jones. Killian Jones was standing outside her door.

"Fuck."

Emma clapped her hands over her mouth, but it was too late. The expletive had already made its way out into the universe.

"Swan?" She froze as she heard his voice permeate through the door. Maybe if she made no sudden movements, he would just leave. She held her breath in hope. "Lass, I can see your shadow shifting in front of the door. Open up."

_Fuckety fuck._

Killian Jones, for lack of a better term, was August's best friend. His former roommate, Killian was the guy who would bail August out when Emma was otherwise unavailable. A law school drop out, Killian was now a pretty middling Private Detective by all accounts, with premises above a laundromat on Mass Ave. They made an unlikely pair, really. Though Killian had a louche kind of appeal, with that whole tall, dark, and leather thing going on, and the accent to match, it had always been her brother who'd been the more disruptive influence. Killian was a secret neat freak who alphabetized their DVD collection. August let used coffee mugs fester for weeks, until they contained cultures with Bronze Age levels of sophistication. Their apartment had certainly been a study of contrasts. And yet, even now, across continents, the friendship endured.

Technically speaking, he was kind of Emma's friend too, if sharing a love for dark spirits and a bitter bar game rivalry could be considered friendly activities. But he was not the kind of friend who showed up on Emma's doorstep unannounced.

"What are you doing here?" She asked through the door at last.

"Ah! She speaks!" came the animated reply. "I was following along with your mental meltdown via Twitter. And then I figured if you were going to drink yourself to death, you should at least have a decent drop." She put her eye back to the peephole just in time to see him waving a promising looking object in a brown paper bag in front of the door.

Ah yes, _the Twitter meltdown_. If her network of friends and associates hadn't already been informed as to the recent change in her employment status, they certainly were now. Still. Something didn't ring quite true with his words.

"What are you really doing here?" She called, letting a note of suspicion into her tone.

A sigh. A nervous rake of a hand through his hair. A necessary summoning of courage. "Err... August wired me $50 to come and make sure you're alright?"

And there it was.

So wherever August was, he had wifi. That was interesting to know. Emma unclicked the deadbolt, letting the door swing open.

"As you can see, I'm fine," she replied to her brother's proxy question, letting her arms cross rather determinedly over her flannel pajama clad chest. "You've done your friendly duties. Now go and enjoy your 50 bucks without guilt."

But he didn't take her none-too subtle suggestion. Instead, he took a careful step forward, letting his gaze sweep from her unwashed hair, which was sticking up at some pretty interesting angles, to the mismatched socks she was wearing with the hole in the toe.

Emma bitterly regretted opening that door.

"Christ, Swan. I knew you'd fallen off the wagon, but this is something else."

* * *

**This story takes its name from the rather excellent song of the same name by Laura Jane Grace (credited as Tom Gabel). There is a certain amount of irony in naming my funniest fic yet after such an angsty song.**


	2. Intervention

_"Christ, Swan. I knew you'd fallen off the wagon, but this is something else."_

"You really know how to charm a girl, don't you?" Emma asked with an edge of irritation, as she made a grab for the brown paper bag.

Killian, however, was way ahead of her, easily transferring the bottle into his other hand and out of reach before she could even get a finger to it.

"Don't even think about it, Swan," he said, raising a single finger in warning, the beginnings of a smirk tracing his lips.

Emma held back the urge to sucker punch him, lest she compromise the integrity of of the bottle he was withholding, and settled for rocking back on her heels, crossing her arms over her chest again, waiting.

"I  _will_ share it with you, lass-" He held up his finger again as Emma moved to interrupt. "But I'll require two things from you first."

Maybe Emma would sucker punch him anyway. Just for the hell of it.

"Firstly,  _and I cannot stress the importance of this,_ you're going to have a shower."

"And the second thing?" Emma asked, her words laced with arsenic.

It wasn't like she'd invited him over looking like this.  _He's_  the one who had shown up unwelcome and unannounced. It wasn't her fault that he'd shown up looking like  _that,_ while she definitely erred on the human disaster side of the spectrum.

"You'll let me feed you some real food," he said finally.

She had to hand it to him, the guy really wanted to earn his $50.

"I'm not a child!" she replied hotly.

"Really, lass?" He raised a single eyebrow. "When was the last time you ate something that wasn't Pop-Tarts? Be truthful now."

She opened her mouth to refute his claims, but of course, she couldn't. He had her over a barrel, and he knew it, if his stupid smirk was any indication.

"Fine!" she relented. And if there was a bit of dramatic foot stomping, could anyone blame her?

"Excellent!" he grinned, twisting her around, and putting a hand on each of her shoulders to steer her towards the bathroom. "Make yourself a little more human, and I'll see about finding something edible in the toxic waste dump you call a kitchen."

Emma scowled, but allowed herself to be led down the hallway.

"I hate you," she said dispassionately, as she reached the bathroom, turning back around to face him.

"I know," he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth. She reached out and slammed the door in his face.

...

When she emerged twenty minutes later, feeling, admittedly, at least 70% more human in clean clothes with her hair blown out, it was to Killian Jones pacing like a caged lion in a kitchen she barely recognized. The mountain of dishes in the sink had been cleaned and put away, the counter tops were practically gleaming, and there was more than a hint of citrus in the air. She swore that even the fridge magnets had been rearranged.  _Holy OCD, Batman._

"Whoa."

"Whoa is right, love," Killian said, pausing mid-step to face her. "Here I was thinking I'd be able to scrounge together enough raw ingredients to make an omelet. Only to find that  _literally_  the only things you have in your fridge are ketchup and nail polish." He looked positively frazzled. " _Why_ do you keep nail polish in your fridge?"

Emma shrugged, ignoring the increasingly pained expression on Killian's face.

"And the shoes in your oven?" That was an easy one. It was broken anyway, and the racks were at a convenient height. Somehow she didn't think Killian would agree with the ingenuity of it all, so she kept silent.

"Alright, that's it!" he declared, striding towards her front door. For a second, Emma assumed he'd finally admitted defeat, and felt a small surge of victory surge in her gut. But the feeling was cut short when instead of reaching for the doorknob, as expected, Killian instead went for the coat rack, taking down Emma's signature red leather jacket and holding it out for her.

"You'll be needing this, lass. It's Granny's for the likes of us."

* * *

Granny's Diner, only a couple of blocks from Emma's apartment, was a neighborhood institution. Stepping inside, Emma always felt like she was stepping into a time warp, the decor decidedly reminiscent of a time before civil rights were in vogue, and smoking indoors was considered A-Okay. Sometime during the Eisenhower administration, perhaps, when checked table cloths, vinyl seating and formica table tops were at the cutting edge of interior design.

It was cutesy as hell, and Emma always felt like she should be wearing a poodle skirt and ordering a milkshake with extra malt. But the coffee was good, the onion rings were even better, and it was open 24 hours a day. More than that, the eponymous Granny Lucas, who had been running the place with a firm hand since time immemorial, liked to pretend she was a hard-ass, but more often than not, she liked to slip Emma extra portions and ask after "that wayward brother" of hers. Granny had an uncanny ability to sniff out strays.

They arrived just before the dinner rush, the familiar scent of burger grease and coffee grounds washing over her as they stepped inside and made their way to the only unoccupied booth.

"A grilled cheese and tomato soup, for the lady," Killian told the waitress, as she approached their table with the plastic menus, before Emma could even get a word in edgewise. "And I'll have have some of Granny's fabulous lasagna." Emma kicked him under the table.  _Domineering bastard._

"And to drink?" The waitress turned her attention squarely to Killian, and Emma felt the anger swell in her chest.

"Tea for the Brit, and a coke for me," she blurted out, before he could contradict her. The waitress's pen remained poised on her pad, waiting patiently,  _and pointedly_ , for Killian's instruction.  _Of course._

"Aye, that'll do just fine," he relented, giving the waitress a conspiratorial shrug. She didn't miss the way the waitress's gaze lingered on Killian long after he had directed his attention back to Emma, a hint of longing flaring in her eyes.

"You're an asshole," Emma grumbled, when the girl had walked away.

"Perhaps," he mused, reaching out to straighten the salt and pepper shakers. "And yet, I am providing you sustenance. The least you could do is leave my shins intact."

Granted, it had been a childish move. But Emma wasn't in the mood for high-handed do-gooders.

It wasn't that she didn't appreciate the clean kitchen and the free dinner, even if they were hardly offered in the spirit of altruism. If anything, it made her less suspicious, knowing what his motives really were.

But there was nothing Emma Swan hated more than being passive while other people made decisions for her. It rankled, in a way few other things did. Which might explain why her recent dismissal had hit her particularly hard. There was nothing worse than that dizzy sensation as your world spins out of control, while you are left paralyzed, unable to do anything to prevent it. It was a feeling Emma had felt all too frequently as a child, and it was one she did her best to avoid as an adult. She had to acknowledge, though, that Killian wasn't doing it on purpose. He was  _trying_ to help. She could at least try to play nice.

"Fine," she mumbled, smoothing out the napkin from where she had balled it into her fist. "So where is he, anyway?"

Killian looked up from his own preoccupations with the condiments. "Sorry?"

"August," Emma clarified. "Where is he?"

She caught it, the twitch of indecision in his features. She simply blinked at him.

"Phnom Pehn, last I heard."

Emma's traced her mind back to high school geography. It hadn't been her best subject. "South Korea? No, that's Seoul, isn't it? Er... Cambodia, right?"

"Aye."

"And do you know what he's doing there?" He let a single eyebrow rise at that, in a look that clearly said, do you  _really_  want to know?

No. Emma didn't. Plausible deniability and all that. She just wanted to know he was alright.

"Did he say when he was coming back?" Killian shook his head, and Emma's heart sank inside her chest.

As unreliable as he was, she missed her brother. She missed rides to the office on the back of his motorcycle, the thrill of weaving through traffic with her arms tight around his waist, always half convinced they were going to die. She missed the little notes he left on the bathroom mirror, with quotes from his favorite authors. She even missed the rhythmic clanking of keys from his ludicrously ancient typewriter as he sat up late, working on his stories, even as she cursed him from underneath her pillow in the next room, demanding to know why he couldn't just get a laptop, like everybody else, for fuck's sake.

"He'll be back, Swan." She looked up to see Killian regarding her carefully, having correctly interpreted her thoughts.

"Yeah." Emma smiled a sad smile. "I know."

Before she and Killian could have anything approaching  _a moment,_ their food turned up, carried by none other than Killian's admirer from earlier.

"She seemed rather friendly," Killian noted with some confusion, once the girl had left again, after checking for a fourth time if there wasn't anything more he needed.

Emma bit back a laugh. "Oh, to be cursed with your pretty face! She left you her number."

"She did?" He sat up alarmed. Emma reached over to tap the napkin on the side of his saucer, unable to contain her grin.

Written in black sharpie, the words  **Call Me! Aurora xxx 555-8768** were bleeding through the thin paper.

Emma couldn't contain her snort of laughter anymore at the look of horror on his face. She gave the girl points for courage, but for execution?

"Christ on a bike. Are those kisses?" he asked, picking it up to examine it more closely.

"Oh, look," said Emma, grabbing it from the other side, "and a real kiss," she said, pointing at the smudge of red lipstick on the top corner, clapping a hand over her face to prevent a torrent of laughter.

"Did she even look legal to you?" Killian hissed back in a whisper, beginning to look back towards to kitchen in a wary kind of way.

"What can I say?" Emma shrugged, dipping a corner of her sandwich into her soup. "Your appeal is just universal. Pensioners and high schoolers alike..."

The tips of Killian's ears turned pink, as he took a long sip of his tea.

"We promised we would never speak of that," he said coldly, as his replaced his cup back into the saucer with a clatter.

It was true, Killian did have a kind of...  _magnetism_ about him. He did have one of those faces, and the scruff and the bedroom eyes certainly helped. Often he used it to his advantage, conning files out of uncooperative secretaries, faster service out of baristas, and dates out of bored barflies. But it did backfire on him, sometimes, being so damned attractive.

Like the time he and Emma had been out at the Rabbit Hole during another one of August's long absences, and he'd been cornered coming back from the restroom by a rather lascivious senior citizen. He  _had_ eventually been able to extract himself from the situation, but the tell-tale smudge of purple lipstick on his collar did require a rather pained explanation.

"It's alright for you, Swan," he had said at the time, "If someone kisses you, and you're not interested, you just deck them. I couldn't do that!  _What if she broke a hip?_ "

He was right, of course. But it didn't stop being any funnier. And his dignity, well... it would recover in time.

"No," Emma corrected. "Our agreement was that I wouldn't tell August.  _And I didn't_. I've lived up to my end. You said  _nothing_  about not tormenting you later."

"An oversight which I bitterly regret," he sighed into his teacup.

"It's alright. I won't tell him about this either," Emma smiled, tapping the side of her nose. "It's strictly off-the-record."

Emma was beginning to think that dinner wasn't such a bad idea after all.


	3. I Didn't Choose The Spy Life, The Spy Life Chose Me

_Print was dead._

Emma knew this. Hell, she'd written enough papers on the subject while she'd been at college. She could wax lyrical about The Age of Media Convergence and The Rise of Citizen Journalism, and why it meant she would never find a job in journalism,  _ever._

The fact of the matter was, she had. And straight out of college to boot. She landed an internship in her senior year, which landed her an actual paying cadetship on graduation. She'd started working for a newspaper that still landed on street corners six days a week, wrapped in plastic. Every article she'd ever had published she'd been able to cut out with scissors, and stick inside a scrapbook, all the while getting ink stains on her hands.

She figured she was the exception to the rule. Call it luck, call it talent, call it divine providence, call it whatever; she thought she'd skipped the hard part.

She... may have been wrong about that.

She couldn't have picked a worse time to be an out-of-work journalist, if she had... well... picked it.

Newsrooms across the country were laying off editorial staff. Magazines were folding left and right. She tried calling a few fairweather friends working at other publications, but they weren't answering her calls. She idly wondered if her Twitter meltdown may have played a role in that. It hadn't been the  _most_ professional move. The rest of the time was spent clicking through job listings, her hopes sinking deeper and deeper into her chest with every unpaid internship she came across. Did no one pay anyone for their work anymore? A CharlieCard and a free lunch were all well and good, but who was paying the rent for of all these people? How did they  _live?_

It had been a month since she'd been fired, and her severance had nearly dried up. Her insurance too.

August still wasn't home yet, and he hadn't kicked in his share of the rent last month either.

Ramen may have been back on the menu. Her Netflix subscription was on borrowed time. Her next student loan repayment was due. Things were getting more than a little dire.

So much so that Emma had to bite the bullet and widen her search parameters. By rather a lot.

Standards were for people with savings accounts. Emma didn't have one of those.

She was in the middle of adding a position as an ice cream scooper into the Maybe folder, when she noticed her phone buzzing across her kitchen table. She swooped on it, taking a moment to compose herself before she answered.

"Emma Swan," she answered with her most put together, please-hire-me voice.

"Swan," came the accented reply.

" _Oh,_ " said Emma, deflating immediately. "It's  _you._ "

"Ouch, lass. If I had heart, you might have broken it." She could practically imagine him clutching dramatically at his chest.

"Good thing you don't then. What do you want, Jones?" She asked with maybe a little less geniality than she could have.

"Am I interrupting something?"

"Just job-hunting."

"Ah. And how is that going?" he asked, the sound of his office chair groaning as he leaned back echoing through the receiver.

"You know the Hindenburg disaster?"

"Yes...?" he answered warily.

"It's going a lot like that."

A pause. A small cough. "So you're not busy, then?" He asked, a little too casually.

Now it was Emma's turn to be wary. " _Why?_ "

"Want to make an easy 100 bucks?"

"Ah, yeah."

"Yes?" He repeated uncertainly, as though expecting a trap.

" _Killian._ I am  _literally_  five seconds away from filling out an application to be a department store Christmas Elf! Lay it on me."

"You have a video camera, correct?"

"Okay,  _now_  I'm suspect." She really didn't think that he-

"Not like  _that_ , lass," he hurried to clarify. "I need video evidence to close a fraud case of mine, and my camera is on the fritz. You still have that one that August brought back from Thailand, aye?"

" _Aye,"_ Emma repeated, with only a hint of mocking.

"Excellent. I'll pick you up outside in twenty minutes. Wear something nondescript." And then he hung up, before she could actually agree to do what he asked.

Emma slid her chair back, looking from her phone back to the advertisement that still lay open on her laptop screen, for the ice cream scooper job.

 _Well,_ she reasoned,  _there were worse ways to make $100._

* * *

"What the hell is that?" Emma asked, as she slid into the passenger seat of Killian's Charger, camera bag slung over her shoulder.

 _That_  was a truly tiny dog in a tiny red sweater lounging on the backseat, with what appeared to be the corner of a manila folder clutched between its tiny, tiny jaws. A miniature pinscher, if Emma had to guess, though she was no expert. She'd once lived with a family for a couple of weeks that had one just like it, though. It had chewed through her only pair of school shoes. She hadn't been a fan.

" _That_ would be Smee." Killian waved a hand between them in introduction. "Smee, Emma. Emma, Smee."

"Smee?" Emma asked, reaching across to secure her seatbelt, giving the creature a wary glance.

"Aye." Killian grinned as he pulled them away from the curb, his words filling with something eerily like pride. "He's my first mate."

"And in this scenario you're... Captain Hook?" Emma asked uncertainly.

"Naturally, Swan." He gave as dramatic a bow as he could while strapped to his seat and still kind of keeping his eyes on the road.

Emma glanced back at the dog set on a destructive mission in the backseat.  _Smee_. He was kind of cute, she guessed, if you liked that kind of thing. The sweater was a little weird though. She didn't pick Killian as the kind of guy to dress his dog up in fall fashions.

"And you've been keeping your fashion-forward pooch on the down low for... how long?"

"Err..." She watched in growing horror as the wattage of Killian's smile visibly dimmed at her question. "It was... It was Milah's idea. To get a dog. Good practice for um..." He was visibly uncomfortable now, and Emma wondered how exactly she always managed to parachute herself into these conversational minefields.

Milah being, of course, the dreaded ex. The woman he had co-habitated with for nearly two years. The woman with whom he had apparently been raising a puppy, in preparation for hypothetical children.

Which,  _whoa._

The same woman who had ditched him three months ago to go crawling back to her ex-husband, who was now conveniently a dotcom millionaire.

Which,  _ouch._

"He's cute!" Emma blurted suddenly, a bit too loudly. No matter her personal vendetta towards all things dog-like, it was the best she could do to breach the awkward silence. "Why haven't you brought him round before?" She asked, reaching out a tentative hand to scratch behind Smee's ears. He whined in approval, but didn't pause in his destruction for a moment.

"Well he-" Killian paused as he scanned the street signs for his next turn. "He tends to get a little... He needs a lot of attention, or he'll pretty much tear up the place." Emma could believe it. "So he's been staying with my downstairs neighbor while I've been at work. Only her brat children are set on foisting her off to a nursing home, so he's kind of... become my shadow of late."

"Riiight. And the... file he's gnawing on?"

"Ah." With one hand still on the wheel, Killian fumbled blindly behind him, finally managing to wrestle the file out of dog's jaws. "That," he said, dropping the file into Emma's lap, "Would be our case file. If you'd like to familiarize yourself?"

Emma opened the file with tentative fingers, trying her best to avoid the dog saliva and chewed up edges.

"Anton Riese." Emma recited, as she scanned the first page. "38. He works in the... Flower Market?" She waited for Killian's nod. "So it's a dispute over worker's compensation?"

"Aye. He says he strained his neck so badly he's unable to work. His employer thinks he's maybe exaggerating his injury. There were a few red flags."

"Red flags?"

"You get over a certain number, they call in someone like me. It usually works out cheaper for them, in the long run." Killian shrugged, turning the car onto a leafy suburban street. "Our Mr Riese ticked 5 boxes in the "suspicious" column."

"Which boxes?"

Killian held off answering as he parked in a shady spot in front of a row of tidy Craftsman-style bungalows and killed the engine. "Firstly," he began, unclipping his seatbelt and turning in his seat to face her. "He's made a claim before, with a previous employer for a similar injury."

"Maybe he just re-aggravated it?"

"Perhaps. But that's just the first. Secondly," Killian held up two fingers now. "No one else witnessed the incident that triggered the injury, even though he usually works as part of a close-knit team. Thirdly," he held up three fingers, "He's missed some medical appointments. Hardly the behavior of a man eager to return to working life as soon as possible. Fourthly," he held up four fingers now, "He's under a certain amount of financial stress. More accurately, he's in the middle of a divorce. And the house," Killian indicated to the third house down on the left. "Belongs to his wife, who earns rather a lot more than he does. She signed a prenup. He's gonna lose it all."

"And fifthly?" Emma prodded, giving the house the ol' once-over. It was virtually indistinguishable from the others on the street, except for the rather impressive oak tree in the front yard.

"Fifthly, he's been uncommunicative and generally hard to get a hold of by both the insurance company and his employers."

"I see..." Emma considered this for a moment. "So we've got the camera in the vain hope that he will suddenly decide to,  _what?_  Host a group yoga session in his front yard?"

Killian snorted. "Aye, something like that. We shadow him for a few hours. Try to catch him performing tasks that err on the strenuous side."

" _That's_  your plan? To lie in wait until he does what we want him to do?" Emma really thought there might be a bit more strategy involved with the whole thing. It just seemed like Killian was prepared to leave things up to chance. Emma liked to think she was a little more... dogged in her approach. Dogged... And with that, an idea began to take shape.

"You've a better suggestion, love?" Killian crossed his arms over his chest, cocking his head to one side as he watched the mischievous smile spread across Emma's face with some amount of trepidation.

"I think I do. Can I borrow your dog?"

* * *

"I don't like it," Killian reiterated for the zillionth time, as Emma stepped out of the car with Smee's tiny body clutched in her arms. She clipped the lead to his collar and let him down onto the pavement, before leading him around to Killian's open driver's side window.

"Try something new, Jones.  _It's called trust_. I won't kill your dog, I promise." Killian only huffed in response.

"You got that camera rolling?" Emma leaned in slightly, to see how he was getting on with it.

"Aye," came his weary reply, as he held up the device.

"Good. And he's still in the front yard?"

"Aye. Tending the bloody hydrangeas."

"And how long did you say he's been estranged from his wife for, again?"

"Five months. Why is  _that_ relevant?" Emma didn't respond, reaching up with her free hand to pull her hair tie free, and shaking her blonde curls loose.

"Swan?" He sounded suspicious. Emma rolled her eyes at him, stripping off her leather jacket to reveal a somewhat sheer blank tank top underneath.

"Just improving our odds," she winked at him. "Catch," she warned, before she tossed her bundled up jacket at him.

"Swan..." It was almost a sigh.

"Watch and learn, Jones."

And with one last flip of her hair, Emma and Smee crossed the road, making their way towards number 23, where Anton Riese was out front, tending the bloody hydrangeas.

...

Emma had already devised a few attention-grabbing scenarios, but she was pleased to find that Smee was up for a little improvisation, letting loose a tirade of surprisingly loud barks, as a squirrel darted across the sidewalk in front of them. As such, the pair just so happened to draw the attention of the man in the neck brace who was kneeling by a shrubbery with a pair of secateurs. And Emma felt the heated gaze as the man's attention shifted from the yappy little dog in the sweater to the woman who was holding the lead.

Emma put an extra swing into her step, throwing in a thoroughly unnecessary, but rather enticing hair flip. She definitely had his attention all-right. He was standing up now, craning his neck rather a lot for a man with a neck strain.

He had taken the bait. And now it was time to engage the target.

Emma bit her lip, pausing in front of the house before his, scanning the numbers on the mailboxes in an obvious kind of way.

"You lost, darling?" came the voice of her Knight In Shining Armor.

"That depends..." Emma replied, turning her attention properly towards the man for the first time. Anton Riese was a rather large man, clearing well over six foot, with a prominent belly. He was dressed in his best gardening casual, with what appeared to be faded pajama pants and an orange t-shirt contrasting rather violently against his blue neck brace. His hair was long, tied up at the back in a frizzy man-bun, and he brushed a strand from his eyes as he took the last few steps around his shrubbery to face Emma directly. His smile was genuine. Friendly. "I'm looking for number 57. But there doesn't seem to... be one?" There may have been a small pout on her end. So sue her.

"Well," he said, a hand coming up to scratch behind one ear, "The numbers on this street only go up to 50... You sure you have the right street?"

"I thought so..." Emma frowned, eyes scanning the houses nearby. Smee got another whiff of squirrel and started going mad, pulling at the lead. Emma might have to reconsider her opinion on dogs. This one was worth its weight in gold. "This is Magnolia Street, right?"

Pleased to be of some assistance, Anton took another step forward, his face breaking into a wide grin. "Actually, this is Magnolia Avenue. There's a Magnolia Street down on-"

But whatever oh-so-helpful directions he was going to impart would have to wait. Smee's desire for squirrel reached fever pitch, and the lead "broke free" from Emma's grasp, Smee taking off full tilt after his fluffy prey. "Shit!" Emma shouted. "Shit! My sister's stupid dog! She's going to kill me! OSCAR! Come back!" Naturally enough, Smee ignored this command, seeing as he hadn't gotten the memo on his newest nickname, and he didn't slow down.

Enter, the good Samaritan. Anton took off running after the pup, betraying a speed that Emma would not have guessed at, considering his size. More impressive, he caught up with him too, after half a block, practically tackling the dog into submission. It was a risky maneuver, which hinted at least a little history as a linebacker. And every second captured on glorious HD.

His grin was ear to ear as he returned with an irate "Oscar" trapped in his arms, who was wriggling like a worm on a hook, demanding to be let down. He handed Emma the leash with bashful nod of his head, and they shared a look of amusement when the dog was finally back on ground level, and began pulling at the lead immediately again, his taste for squirrel not even close to sated.

...

"So, Boss," Emma began, as she returned back to the car, after circling around the block, letting an exciteable Smee leap back into his position in the backseat, before closing her door shut. "What do you think?"

Killian was turned towards her, his arm leaning against the wheel, the camera in his lap, as he took in Emma's flush of victory, and her self-satisfied smirk. His own face was neutral, giving nothing away, and for a moment, Emma worried that the footage wouldn't be enough. Maybe the take-down had been obscured by a tree or parked car? Did she remember to charge the battery last time she used it? When  _was_ the last time she used it, anyway? Last Christmas? And then Killian broke into a series of involuntary chuckles, and Emma felt a wave of relief.

"That was bloody brilliant, Swan," he admitted at last, shaking his head in disbelief, between chuckles. "You convinced a man with an allegedly serious neck injury to make a flying tackle, simply by wearing a see-through shirt. It was..." He grasped for the right words, letting his eyes wander down to the aforementioned shirt, and it's less-than-opaque qualities. "A pleasure, Swan, watching you work," he finished, an almost wolfish grin spreading on his lips.

Emma rolled her eyes, grabbing her jacket back to cover herself up again.

"So... did I earn my hundred bucks?" she asked, as she tugged her arms into the sleeves, and shrugged her leather armor back into place.

"Lass, for that effort, I'm throwing in champagne."


	4. A Friend In Need Is A Friend Indeed

There was a postcard in her mailbox when Emma got back from the store. It came right alongside a past due notice from her electricity provider, but she ignored that one, dropping her bag of frozen dinners right there in the entrance way to flip over the card containing a disgustingly picturesque scene of the Temple of Angkor Wat encased in mist, with trembling hands.

There were just two lines written in August's familiar untidy scrawl.

_I'm so sorry, Em._

_Back soon.  
_

Emma blinked back the tears, half in relief, half in anger. Or maybe that was more to do with the throbbing pain in her foot, from where she had kicked it against the wall in frustration. It had been a rash move, one she regretted more and more as she made her slow, painful trudge up three flights of stairs, weighed down with shopping bags and a persistent ache in her chest.

Three months! He'd been gone for three months!

He'd never been gone so long before, and certainly not without sending a check to cover rent. Emma had half a mind to put this room up for let on Craigslist and sell his antique typewriter out from under him. It was worth a damn sight more than anything than Emma owned, maybe even more than her piece of shit Volkswagen, held together as it was these days by little more than duct tape and prayers. And it would serve him right for being such a flake.

So of course she wouldn't.

But she sure fantasized about it.

Right up until the moment her power got shut off, due to non payment.

...

For a little while, she thought she could handle it.

After all, humans had lived for thousands of years without electricity. Surely it couldn't be  _that_ hard to survive a couple of rough weeks? It would be like camping, but without ever having to leave her couch. Emma had never been camping, but other people did it all the time, and they didn't necessarily hate it. It could be like a vacation from the drone of modern life. A detox. Hadn't she been concerned lately that she might have become a little  _too_ dependent on checking her Twitter every fifteen minutes? Now she could concentrate on the more important stuff. She could read all those books that had been piling up on her nightstand for months, the ones that she always told herself she was getting around to, and never did. She could take up yoga. It was just stretching and breathing, right? Emma could breathe. She could be someone who stretches.

The sunny-side approach lasted an entire five minutes, before Emma checked the emergency supplies drawer, and came to the swift realization that she and August didn't really  _have_  an emergency supplies drawer. It was just the bottom kitchen drawer, and all it contained was a box of band-aids (empty), a ball of string, and a small cache of plastic shopping bags. She didn't even own any fucking matches.

It was demoralizing to realize that in the event of a zombie apocalypse, or  _any_  kind of apocalypse really, she wouldn't even last through the night.

Things got progressively worse over the next few hours, as each new horror of her predicament slowly revealed itself. All Emma had in the way of food was a stockpile of frozen Lean Cusine meals, and a few cans of soup. August had always been the one who did the cooking. Emma didn't cook so much as microwave, or toast. Occasionally she branched out, and she heated on the stove top, but not often. None of which were feasible options with the power out. And whilst it might not necessarily kill her, the idea of eating chicken and corn soup cold from the can did lack a certain appeal. She was  _definitely_ going to starve to death sooner rather than later.

The wifi was already shot, and Emma watched in abject horror as her phone battery dwindled down to nothing in her hands. She pictured her future, spending the winter being perpetually moved on from each Starbucks in her neighborhood, circling for free power outlets like a hungry vulture, snatching half-eaten muffins off of recently vacated tables. The image was uncomfortably familiar, like a past Emma had only been too happy to suppress. And this time, there was no August to pull her back from the brink.

Resolved to just have a shower and go to bed in defeat, because what the fuck else was she going to do, Emma reached her last proverbial straw. Because as Emma sat under that freezing cold spray, sick with the realization that the water really wasn't  _ever_  going to warm up , because  _of fucking course_ her hot water heater was electric, she realized she could put up with a lot of shit: Cold soup, no wifi, a lack of ambient lighting. But everyone has limits, and Emma's limit was this: No fucking hot water.

...

She figured he was still up. Smee certainly was, barking up a storm on the other side of the door as she knocked. The rest of the building was probably up now too. She briefly wondered if Killian got beautifully calligraphed notes left in _his_  mailbox threatening  _his_ dog with euthanasia on the regular. It would only be fair; for such a little dog, there was quite a lot of bark. But somehow Emma doubted it. Shit like that only ever happened to her.

She heard him approaching long before she saw him. She heard the sound of heavy footfalls creaking on wooden floorboards, the rumble of a stern command, and a few blessedly bark free moments before the door swung open, and Killian finally appeared, all sleep rumpled with his hair sticking up in all directions.

 _Ah._  Maybe not still up after all.

"Swan?" he asked, his surprise morphing into a sizeable yawn.

He was holding an excitable Smee to his chest with one hand, presumably to keep the pup from making a break for it, but, to her shame, that wasn't what most caught Emma's attention. Killian wasn't wearing a shirt, and Emma suddenly felt her cheeks flush involuntarily as she noticed.  _And boy, did she notice_. There was some very nice muscle definition going on, and a surprising amount of chest hair.  _Someone_ hadn't let their gym membership go to waste.

Before she could be caught gawking, Emma hastily raised her eyes back to his face. She was just in time to see his sleepy blue eyes fill with comprehension as they took in the woman standing on his doormat in the middle of the night, shivering into her coat, hair still wet, with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Having apparently decided that she wasn't some sort of apparition, or just a dream, he nodded to himself and stepped back a bit, holding the door open for her to step inside. Which she did, dropping her bag on the mat and collapsing onto his couch in what felt like a single movement.

She liked his couch. It was an egregious sixties velour monstrosity that Killian and August had rescued whilst dumpster diving many years ago. It was floral, and golden, and trimmed in hideous brown bullion fringe. Much more suited to the apartment of an old lady than a pair of bachelors. And yet, they'd been so fucking proud of it when they'd finally managed to maneuver it up the stairs. Even if it did still smell suspiciously of cat piss sometimes, even after numerous attempts by Killian to Febreze the hell out of it. Now it was just part of the charm.

The rest of the apartment seemed to err on the side of IKEA these days, rather than back alley bargain, and Emma wondered exactly how much of that was Milah's influence, and how much was simply the lack of August's. Milah had hated this couch, August had said, and when she'd first started coming around she'd made Killian buy a throw rug big enough to hide its hideousness from the world. But Milah was gone now, and so was the throw rug.

"It's that bad?" Killian asked carefully, as he dropped Smee back down and came to sit on the edge of the coffee table in front of her, but the look in his eye told her that he already knew the answer to that.

Emma Swan wasn't exactly the kind to lean on friends and acquaintances if she was in the bind. She was much more the "suffer in silence" type. Or she had been, anyway. Before August. Now, she was just woefully out of practice.

"It's that bad," she confessed, sitting up properly to face him. Emma had been loathe to admit it out loud, to admit defeat. But it was true now whether she said it or not. Things were bad. The worst they'd been in ages. And unless August came back soon, they would be getting a whole lot worse. "You don't have some cloak-and-dagger, secret squirrel way to get in touch with him, do you?" Emma asked, unable to keep the hope entirely out of her voice. He didn't ask who she meant.

"Not really," he admitted, but at least he had the good sense to look apologetic about it. "But he should be back soon."

" _Soon?_  As in back by Friday ready to cut a hefty check for overdue rent,  _soon?_ " Emma couldn't quite hide the bitterness.

" ** _He hasn't been paying rent!?_** " Emma couldn't lie, his outrage cheered her up considerably. It was nice to have someone on her side.

"Nope."

" _Jesus Christ_ , Swan. Why didn't you  _say_  anything!?"

Emma just shrugged, even as she watched Killian tease his hair into angry tufts with his fingers. "He's never been gone this long before. I kind of figured he'd be home already..."

Killian scowled, rising to his feet, hands still wringing with tension. "Bloody hell. I'm going to kick his sorry arse when he gets home. That's bad form! Leaving you in the lurch, so he can swan around Asia like some fucking hippy?"

"Yeah, take a number and get in line, buddy. I think I've earned the first crack at him." It was the first smile that Emma had managed since she arrived, and Killian returned it, holding out a hand to help pull her to her feet.

"Aye," he agreed, with the sweep of his other hand. "Ladies first." He cut a glance to the duffel bag still sitting on the rug where Emma had dropped it, then back to Emma herself. "His old bedroom is still free. I just need to make up the bed."

He went to brush past her, towards the hallway where the linen closet was, but Emma's hand on his wrist held him in place.

"Swan?" His voice was soft, and low, and he was clouse enough that when he turned to face her, Emma could see the tinge of green in his eyes. It's enough for Emma to release her grip on him immediately, and take a sudden step back.

"Thank you, Killian," she swallowed, letting her eyes drift to the floor instead of at him.

"Don't thank me yet, lass." She looked up to see a devious grin spreading across his face. "That's where Smee has been sleeping of late. And trust me, he's a terrible roommate. And a kicker."


	5. Infidelity Blues

Smee  _was_  a kicker. And just a downright terrible bedmate, really.

Emma had tried keeping him out of the room originally, a locked door between them. She felt a little bad for taking his bed, sure, but he could handle being a living room refugee for a night. Even if the couch did smell of cat. But all the pitiful whimpering and scratching at the door with his paws that followed had pulled at her conscience, and eventually reached a point where she couldn't imagine it would be any worse with him inside. It was. No amount of "stay" commands kept him on the floor, and Killian hadn't been lying about the kicking.

She awoke sometime in the early morning to tiny legs beating at her stomach, and a series of whines as the dog played out some kind of Balto hero fantasy in his dreams, little legs circling in midair determinedly, as if he were on some life-saving quest and not in Killian Jones's spare bedroom, taking all of Emma's bed space. Oh yes, he was also a bed hog, stretching his tiny body out in the middle of the mattress, somehow forcing Emma to the very edge of the bed, near the wall. How he'd managed to accomplish such a feat when he was, at most, 10 pounds, remained an infuriating mystery.

But the worst part for Emma was definitely waking up to Smee's kibble breath as he lapped enthusiastically at her face with his tongue. That had been a hell of a wake up call.

* * *

"I hate your dog." They were Emma's first words of greeting for the day, as she slumped down at Killian's kitchen table. She brushed a sleeve over her freshly washed face, but her skin still remembered the sticky feeling a little too vividly.

"I  _did_ try to warn you," Killian replied from where he stood at the counter, already dressed for the day, holding a steaming mug to his lips. Emma just rolled her eyes, before dropping her head onto the table. "Coffee?" He offered, and Emma didn't have to look at him to know there was a smirk forming.

Emma merely grunted her assent, closing her eyes in victory when she heard the tell-tale sign of a full mug being placed on the table beside her. It was followed a few seconds later by a plate of peanut butter toast, she could smell it. She missed this. Having someone around to look out for her.

And then, having realized what she'd just thought, she snapped her eyes back open and lifted her head off the table so fast she got a flash of vertigo.

"Alright, Swan?" he asked, as went to sit down at the seat opposite, stuffing a piece of toast into his mouth.

"Uh huh," Emma replied, reaching for her mug. "Thanks."

"No problem," he managed with a mouthful of toast. He took a moment to swallow down his food. "So any plans for the day, lass?"

Emma felt herself bristle. "You mean,  _apart_  from searching for any kind of job that will get me out of your apartment quicker, right?"

"Hold up, love. That's  _not_ what I meant."

"No?" Emma quirked one eyebrow, as she placed her mug back down on the table.

"No," he replied calmly, his eyes meeting hers. "I was merely wondering if you'd be open to assisting me again today? Since you did such a bang up job last time? Same deal. $100 for a few hours work."

Emma drummed her fingers against her chin. "I can't decide if you are offering out of charity, or self interest at this point. If you want me gone, all you have to do is say..."

"Again,  _not_  what I meant," Killian sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in apparent exasperation. "To be perfectly clear, you're welcome to stay until August returns, and things have sorted themselves out. Contrary to popular opinion, love, I'm not quite as bad as all that." Emma's eyebrows rose at that. "You can use whatever you make to keep up the rent on your place, and stay here until you can afford to get the utilities turned back on. I mean, I know the neighborhood isn't exactly up to scratch, and you  _do_  have to share a room with an aspiring Golden Boot winner, but-"

"Thank you," Emma blurted out, her guilt at questioning his motives rising to her skin in a flush of shame. It was a generous offer. A  _very_  generous offer. One that Emma didn't have a hope in hell of actually repaying. "Really. Thank you. I appreciate you letting me crash, but you know you don't have to, right? You don't owe me anything, and god knows, I don't have any way to pay you back. And if you  _do_  want me gone..."

She heard something akin to a growl building at the back of his throat, as Killian batted her hand away from her toast, and held out his own. " _Emma_ , just accept my bloody help, or don't. Either way, stop doubting if you're welcome or not. I made you an offer, knowing full well what I was offering, and I'm not about to rescind it. The only question is, do you accept?"

She considered his outstretched hand a moment, with a quizzical eye. He'd called her Emma. He never did that. And he wasn't lying, that she could tell. His offer, however too good to be true, seemed... genuine. And Emma was many things, including far too suspicious for her own good, but she was also desperate. She drew her own hand forward and clasped it in his, shaking firmly. "Deal." Killian smiled, a soft thing that made the crinkles around his eyes more prominent, and Emma drew her gaze back to her coffee.

"So what was it you needed my help with?"

* * *

They were off downtown to catch a cheating partner in the act. Something which evidently made up the bulk of Killian's trade. A fact that made Emma a little sad for humanity, even if she wasn't exactly surprised.

"Nothing better for business than a healthy dose of spousal paranoia," he had said with a lazy grin, as he'd thrown Emma the case file once they were in the car.

"What if they aren't cheating?" Emma hedged. "Do you have to forego your fee?"

Killian shrugged. "I get a base rate. But if I prove infidelity, I get a bonus. Fortunately for me, nine times out of ten, they are."

"And the other time out of ten?" She asked, scanning over the particulars.

He shrugged again. "It varies. Usually some other nefarious deeds. Gambling debts. A pornography addiction. Drugs. Stockpiling assets in overseas accounts..."

Emma whistled through her teeth. "Wow. That's fucking grim. And  _how_  exactly does your faith in humanity endure?" she asked with a smile.

"What faith in humanity?" he countered, but there was a grin teasing his lips. "Anyway, you're a fine one to talk, with all of your articles about drive-by shootings and police corruption every other day. I can't imagine that left a very positive impression of the enduring good of the human spirit."

"Hang on," said Emma, turning to face him, having come to a sudden realization. "You  _read_  my articles?"

He turned his head for a moment to catch her eye, long enough for Emma to confirm that he had indeed, before focusing his attention back on the road. "Does that surprise you?"

"A little, yeah," Emma responded honestly.

"Fine publication,  _The Sentinel_. Although I must say, the quality of reporting has dipped somewhat lately. More and more I find myself using it to clean up after Smee, rather than keep up with current affairs." The grin on his face is full-blown now and Smee, excited at hearing his name spoken aloud, barks happily from the backseat.

Emma just rolled her eyes, watching as the buildings of downtown whiz past her window, unable to entirely prevent a grin of her own.

* * *

"Looks a bit, I don't know,  _public_ for a clandestine extra-marital meeting, don't you think?" Emma asked, as the two of them settled on a bench near the Frog Pond, with Smee pulling at the lead held firm in Killian's hand. It was around about midday, and their visit coincided with a rare sunny day for the time of year, so it was little surprise to find the place swarmed with tourists, and office workers on their lunch breaks.

"You'd be surprised, Swan," Killian responded, as he dug around in his satchel for his camera. "Nothing makes people feel more anonymous than being in a crowd." Emma just grunted in response.

It was stupid, was what it was; conducting one's private affairs out in the open, where anyone could see. Then again, staking out a popular tourist trap was a lot less sordid than staking out the parking lot of the local Motel 6. The idea was to look like just another pair of hapless tourists wandering The Common. It would certainly explain away the presence of the ridiculous sized lens on Killian's camera. But when he pulled out a Yankees cap to cover up his dark mess of hair, Emma knew it was time to intervene.

" _Are you kidding me?!_ " Emma hissed, swiping the cap from his head and burying it at the bottom of her messenger bag, "Do you  _want_ us to be burned at the stake?"

"Too much?" He grinned at the scowl on Emma's face, leaning down to tie Smee's leash to the arm of the bench.

"There's undercover, and then there's suicidal! Why do you even  _have_ that?"

"So dramatic, Swan." He almost looked like he approved.

"I thought you said we were trying to blend in?  _This,_ " she patted her bag where she'd stuffed the hat, "Is  _not_  blending in. It's inviting a punch in the face."

"Particularly fond of my face, are we, darling?" There was something extra in his eyes then, a little twinkle. Emma settled for shoving him in the shoulder, and mumbling about getting coffee, making her way to the end of the long queue snaking out of the cafe.

When she returned, Killian's game face was back on, and he gave a subtle tilt of his chin to a woman sitting on a bench on the other side of the pond, reading a book.

"That's her?" Emma asked, eyes squinting in the bright sunlight.

"That's her," Killian confirmed, holding his camera up to his face, and making a show of capturing the fall foliage.

Their target was one Belle Gold, new wife of one Robert Gold, of the department store chain empire. Gold, or rather, Gold's assistant, who'd done the actual hiring, suspected that Belle, being a good twenty years her husband's junior, was simply out for his money and was on the lookout for a piece on the side.

Emma slipped on a pair of oversized sunglasses and regarded the woman through her tinted frames. She was a pretty girl, about Emma's own age, dressed to kill in some very nice designer threads, all the way down to her impractically tall, but very beautiful heels. But she didn't exactly scream gold digger to Emma. She looked classy. Put together. She looked like exactly who she was supposed to be, a junior curator at the Museum of Fine Arts. Nor did she seem all that interested in scouting around for talent, her nose buried in a battered paperback.

"Crime and Punishment?" Emma guessed, cursing her limited vision.

"Anna Karenina," Killian corrected from behind his camera, with a chuckle. "Maybe we're in luck, after all."

Emma rolled her eyes. "I think that's a bit of a stretch. Just because the woman is reading Tolstoy, it doesn't mean she is going to be inspired into taking on a doomed love affair."

"No?" Killian lowered the camera from his face, revealing a disbelieving grin.

"You  _do_  know how that book ends, right?"

"Aye. I've seen the film, anyway. Quite the tragic little tale. But she hasn't finished the book yet, has she? Perhaps that is a lesson she is yet to learn."

Emma was spared her next retort when the satchel beside her started to vibrate, and a Beatles hit began to play.

"Ah," said Killian, handing Emma his camera, before he started scrounging around for his phone. " _That_  would be my assistant."

"You made  _Help!_  her personalized ringtone?" Killian just winked, pulling out his phone at last with a dramatic flourish, and taking a few steps away to take the call.

Emma returned her focus back to the woman on the bench. She wasn't so fully focused on her book anymore, her attention occasionally seeming to be drawn to a cluster of ducks in the middle of the pond. Perhaps all of that Russian tragedy was getting to be too much. Emma got that. She'd once tried to read War and Peace for a bet, and even the draw of twenty bucks hadn't been enough inducement for her to finish it.

And then a woman sat down on the bench beside Belle, and Emma's attention perked up. A friend? A colleague? They hugged in greeting, and Emma took a few shots, just in case. A friend, most likely. The newcomer was a tall brunette, her personal style erring more on the ostentatious side than her friend's, with statement earrings peeking from underneath her hair, a crop top and a very tight red jeans showing off every inch of her long legs.

Using the wonders of 40X optical zoom, Emma tried to follow along with their interactions. The newcomer looked excited, talking a million miles an hour, with Belle smiling indulgently at her as she spoke. Good friends, she supposed. She cut a glance back to where Killian stood a few yards away, still on the phone. He looked mildly aggrieved, running one of his hands through his hair as he spoke until it stood on end,and then patting it back down again.

And then the newcomer, the tall one, made her move. And suddenly Belle Gold, department store empress, and this mystery woman were making out in the middle of Boston Common, for all the world to see, like it was some kind of Olympic Sport. Emma was so stunned she almost dropped the camera in her haste to center up the shot. Wow. She had  _not_ expected that. She zoomed in a little more, setting the camera to take a burst of shots. Maybe she'd been wrong about Tolstoy.

"Killian!" she hissed, trying to get his attention without making a scene. "Killian get off the fucking phone! We've just struck gold!" Pun unintended.

He returned a few moments later, stuffing his phone into his front jeans pocket, scowling. "Cheer up," Emma ordered, as he sat down beside her. She held out the camera. "Mrs Gold and her mystery lover are over there playing tonsil hockey, and we've got the pics to prove it!"

He snatched the camera away faster than Emma could see, focusing on the pair with a laser like intensity. "Well I'll be damned," he breathed, taking shot after shot.

There was still something a bit sordid about it, Emma thought, creeping on this couple as they went about macking on each other. Not that her bag of journalistic tricks were always on the up and up either. She'd done her fair share of knocking on doors of people who had no interest in talking to the press, of tailing suspected bad guys as they went about their shady dealings. She supposed that the only real difference was that she now followed people who committed immoral sins, as well as illegal ones.

"Well I'll be damned," Killian said again, as he put down the camera, apparently satisfied that he'd gotten enough evidence for Robert Gold to come out ahead in his divorce proceedings.

"It's good, right?"

"Honestly?" He turned to face Emma. "I wasn't really sure she  _was_  cheating. I thought we'd just be watching her make her way through all of the Russian classics without a hint of wrongdoing." He revealed a self-deprecating smile. "Which just goes to show, I really am a terrible judge of character."

"What did your assistant want?"

"Ah." His face seemed to fall. "Well that's where that terrible judge of character part comes in. My assistant, or should I say, my  _ex-_ assistant, is on the first plane out to Delhi. Apparently a space has opened up in this very well-known ashram, and she really must go, because answering my phones is the spiritual equivalent of drowning oneself against some rocks, day in, day out."

"Seriously?" She'd heard about Killian's assistant before, the new-agey, bubbly Ariel. Even the ever irresponsible August thought she was a bit too removed from reality. But to just leave her job on a whim?

"Those were her exact words," he said, holding his head in his hands.

"Ouch." Emma was wondering whether or not to pat him on the shoulder in consolation when his head snapped back up, and his eyes fixated on her with newfound interest.  _Uh Oh._

"Say, Swan. How's your telephone manner?"


	6. First Days Are The Worst Days

She took the job.

Like she  _really_ had a choice in the matter, what with the crippling poverty, and all.

And it sure did beat being a department store Christmas elf.

Jones Investigations wasn't all that much to look at from the outside. A faded sign was all that revealed its location above a laundromat on a particularly sketchy stretch of Massachusetts Avenue, a laundromat which no doubt doubled as a refuge for the city's homeless after dark, being both open 24 hours, and thanks to a bank of dryers constantly on the go, always a balmy 90 degrees no matter the time of year. That and the telling fact there had been someone sleeping in the stairwell leading up to Killian's office when Emma arrived bright and early for her first day of work.

It was a stark reminder that though her fortunes had taken a recent tumble, she hadn't hit rock bottom just yet. Not this time.

There had been times, especially during those troubled teen years, on the run from a string of awful foster homes, that Emma had been reduced to sleeping rough, on benches in train stations and in vacant motel rooms she'd managed to break into during the middle of the day. She'd always been wary of heading to a shelter, knowing that was a one way ticket back into the clutches of Child Protective Services.

She'd made it all the way to Oregon before August had finally caught up with her, where she had embarked on a career of petty theft with some idiot she'd met trying to steal the car he had already stolen. She hadn't been all that happy with August when he'd dragged her back to Boston, where he'd been living since getting out of the system, and forced her to go back to school. She'd yelled and raged and cried and run away a handful of times, trying to get back to that guy and the little Bonnie and Clyde thing they had going, confusing that rush of first love and adrenaline of living life outside the law with something far more meaningful. But August always found her. Brought her back home. Got her right.

She'd just been a stupid kid.

If it weren't for August, she'd probably be the one sleeping in stairwells. Or in jail. Or worse.

Emma inched her way up the stairs, careful not to wake the sleeping stranger, who was thankfully snoring softly into the sleeve of his threadbare sweater, so she didn't feel the need to check for a pulse. Pausing to consider for a moment, she pulled the sandwich she'd just bought from the deli around the corner out of her bag and left it on the step above him. Maybe he'd take it, or maybe he wouldn't, but Emma thought the guy could do with it more than her.

Killian had beaten her upstairs, having skipped the detour to the deli on the way, and was already in the middle of some kind of altercation with his photocopier, Smee cheering him on with a series of small yips delivered from his designated mat in the corner. The office comprised of one large room lit by a single tungsten globe suspended from the ceiling, casting the room in an unflattering yellow sheen that made everything look even more aged and shabby than it already did.

"Problem?" Emma asked, dropping her messenger bag down onto what she supposed was her new desk, if the ancient telephone with the honest-to-god rotary dial was any indication.

Killian paused mid-expletive, foot raised to kick the machine again, looking up to see Emma regarding him with a trace of amusement, arms crossed over her chest.

"Oh," he said, lowering his foot and reaching a hand out to lean oh-so-casually on the machine he'd been hell-bent on bashing the crap out of not five seconds previously. "No. No problem," he said quickly, brushing his hair from where it had fallen in front of his eyes with his other hand.

" _Right,"_ said Emma, letting the word stretch so he knew she didn't buy it for a second. She strode over to stand beside him, giving the machine a good once-over. Apart from the smudge of a boot print imprinted on the side, it looked like any other copier that had been at the height of sophistication twenty years ago.  _Where the hell did Killian find all of this crap?_  His entire office looked like it had been swiped off the set of a Meg Ryan romantic comedy circa 1993. "So what's the problem?"

A pause, as if he didn't want to admit that he'd been bested by a humble Epson.

"Still thinks it's out of paper," he grunted finally. "Even when it isn't. Ariel could always get it to work, but the bloody contraption has taken against me in the worst way."

"And after you were so gentle with it?" Emma teased, nudging him out of the way with her elbow. "Alright," she said, trailing her hands over the plastic cover and she knelt down beside it. "Time to watch and learn, Jones. All they need is a little finesse. They smell fear, you know?" Killian snorted, but stepped away his arms raised in surrender.

"It's all yours, Swan. Knock yourself out," he said, letting himself fall into his desk chair with a sigh.

And she did, taking a moment to consider her approach. She opened up the paper tray, straightening the ream she found there, and slipped the tray back into place carefully with practiced ease. Cooing soft encouragements, she straightened again, reaching out a finger to tap the Go button, letting out a whoop when the machine hummed into life. Killian looked up, blinking disbelievingly.

"I told you," Emma chided, unable to prevent the smug grin stretching across her face. " _Finesse_." Killian just rolled his eyes, getting up to stand by the paper output, snatching up the copied pages as the machine spat them out.

"What's that?" Emma asked, craning her neck to see over his shoulder.

"Bloody nosy, aren't you?" Killian said, holding the paper to his chest, obstructing her view.

Emma just rose a single eyebrow, pointing at herself. "Uh, investigative reporter. Kind of comes with the territory?"

"That was  _then_ ," Killian replied, reaching one hand up to land on her shoulder, steering her around. " _Now_ , you're my assistant. And it would assist me greatly if you stopped asking so many bloody questions and tried to familiarize yourself with the chaos Ariel left behind as best you can." He gave her a small shove in the direction of her new desk.

"You're welcome," Emma sniped back. Killian merely offered a huff of acknowledgement, returning to his seat to read his papers in privacy.

* * *

Whatever Ariel's strengths had been, Emma doubted very much they extended to such mundane things as filing, or organization. A pity really, considering that had kind of been the extent of her job description. Her desk drawers were crammed with take-out menus, half completed crossword puzzles clipped from the newspaper, from  _The Boston Sentinel,_ in particular, Emma noted, as well as a series of books that gave Emma pause.

 _The Art of War_ by Sun Tzu.

 _The Prince_  by Nicholo Machiavelli.

Not the kind of light reading Emma would have expected from a dippy, new-agey type. She'd been more expecting to encounter the collected works of Deepak Chopra, maybe a few back issues of The Oprah Magazine. Not, this.

What she didn't find in any of the drawers was anything approaching paperwork. No invoices. No case files. No appointment book. Not so much as a goddamn Rolodex. A glaring omission that, combined with her choice of reading material, made Emma's heart plummet into her stomach, as she drew the obvious conclusion.

"Uh," Emma began tentatively, waiting for Killian's gaze to lazily travel from his laptop screen to her. "Please tell me your assistant didn't skip town with all of your client contact information, and case files." She tried to tamp down the note of mild panic that was beginning to cut into her words, failing miserably.

"What?" He blinked, as if he hadn't heard her right, but Emma could see the vein on his forehead begin to throb.

"There isn't anything here but crossword puzzles and fucking Machiavelli!" She said, slamming the last drawer back into the desk. "So either you had the world's most inefficient secretary, or she's taken some pointers from dear old Nicolo and fucked off with your client list!"

He was on his feet in seconds, motioning for Emma to get out of the way so that he could search through the drawers himself.

In minutes the office was covered in torn up scraps of newspaper, Smee happily rolling around in the debris, with Killian knelt by the desk, seething, his eyes glinting with a fury Emma had never seen in them before.

"It's all gone," he snarled, rising to his feet. "All of it."

* * *

She didn't see Killian for the rest of the day.

Not while she cleared away the last of the newspaper. Not while she alphabetized the remaining case files, the ones Killian had kept locked in a separate filing cabinet, safe from thieving underlings. Not while she took Smee for an afternoon walk down to the nearest park, orange leaves crunching under her boots.

It wasn't until she eventually gave up and headed back to his place that she found him, sitting at his kitchen table with a half empty bottle of Captain Morgan in front of him, looking positively morose. It wasn't a word she often used, but that was about the size of it. Morose.

He barely looked up as she came in, content to continue his staring contest with his refrigerator, his anger from earlier seeming to have evolved into something less explosive, but altogether heavier, pulling his shoulders down with the weight of it. Even Smee's excitable tugs at his bootlaces with his teeth did little to stir him. So Emma figured that if she couldn't beat 'em, she'd join 'em. She took a seat beside him, and slid the bottle towards herself, taking a generous swig.  _That_ he noticed.

"I guess you didn't find her," Emma said in a small voice, once the pervasive silence had gotten a little too loud for her.

"She's in the wind," he replied finally, voice eerily flat, making a fluttering motion with the hand that hadn't snatched back the bottle.

"And your clients?"

"I made some calls. Seems rather a lot of them have found themselves a new go-to investigator. Not Ariel. The person she sold them to."

"Ouch. I'm sorry." She felt stupid saying it, but it was the only thing she could think of to say.

He lifted his head back to take a long pull. "So am I, love. So am I."

A pause.

"I guess this means I'm fired?" She asked tentatively, even though she already knew the answer.

Thanks to some on-the-down-low conversations with August in the past, Emma already suspected Jones Investigations wasn't doing so hot. But with a ransacked client list, they might as well have been circling the drain.

He pulled himself out of his stupor long enough to look at her, properly this time, his brow furrowing the longer he considered her. "On the contrary, Swan. I think I need assistance now more than ever."

They weren't the words Emma was expecting. She had already been mentally preparing herself for the easy letdown. Her head snapped up.

"Seriously?" She couldn't quite dial back the surprise. "How can you even afford to pay me? She took everything!"

"Yes and no," he replied, pushing his chair back until he was out of reach of the bottle on the table, his eyes losing some of that glazed look. "She took most of the clients. She didn't take all of them." A pause. "And I have a feeling that having an assistant around who isn't deliberately trying to tank the operation may prove quite helpful, going forward."

He fixed her with a look that bordered on earnest. "If you wish to stay, that is," he continued, letting a hint of vulnerability flash across his face, one hand coming up to scratch behind his ear. A nervous tell.

"I do." And then thinking how much that sounded like a vow, Emma hurriedly added, "Want to stay, that is."

The trace of a smile curved his lips, but faded before it reached his eyes. "I won't lie. Things won't be easy. Building up a new client list. Stealing a few back. It's like starting from scratch, without dumb beginner's luck."

"Starting from scratch sounds good." Emma met his eyes, reaching a hand forward to squeeze his forearm reassuringly. "We'll make our own luck."


	7. His Girl Friday

The first step towards bringing Jones Investigations back up to financial solvency included expanding their brand beyond the shady lowlifes that made up the majority of the remaining clientele.  _What?_  Emma had taken a marketing class or two in college. She knew  _things_. But she would soon learn it wasn't about making the business more visible, as it was making it less _invisible_.

" _Seriously?!_  You don't even have a  _website?_  How do you even  _get_  clients? Do you lure them upstairs using sweet treats? How  _the hell_ have you made it this long? Did you not take  _any_ business classes in your undergrad?" Killian said nothing as Emma continued her berations, content to merely fold his arms over his chest and lean back in his chair, cool eyes watching as she paced in front of his desk in more and more frenetic circles.

"An ad in the Yellow Pages does not constitute a marketing mix! When was the last time  _you_ cracked open a Yellow Pages? Back when that computer-" she motioned at the elephantine monstrosity that took up the majority of his desk space, "was new?"

" _Swan,_ " Killian sighed at last, holding a hand up to stop her launching into her next tirade. "If I wanted to be lectured to, I'd Skype my brother. I think we've already firmly established the old Business Model was flawed, and I take full responsibility for that. So instead of you pacing in front of my desk like a tiger in a cage, you take this," he said, pulling a credit card out from his pocket, and sliding it over to her side of the desk, "and make whatever changes you like, within a $2000 credit limit, alright?"

Emma paused mid-step, her next reproach dying on her tongue. Her gaze fell to the offered card, gleaming temptingly under the fluorescent lights. "Seriously?"

He merely made a waving motion with his hand, and Emma, with only the slightest hesitation, leaned forward to grab it off the desk top. " _You know_ ," she continued, twirling the card between her fingers as if it was a playing card. "I think you might be too trusting when it comes to assistants. I'm just saying,  _these hands_ ," she wiggled her fingers, the card she had been holding now vanished from sight, "have a juvie record."

"As does the rest of you," he countered with a grin, leaning back in his chair again and propping his boots of the edge of the desk. He indicated the sleeve Emma had stashed the card out of sight with a nod of his chin. "Remind me to deal you in for my next poker game. You don't have any trouble taking the heard earned cash of Boston's finest, do you?"

She flashed him a wicked smile, even as she swung her messenger bag over her shoulder. "It would be a pleasure."

* * *

Two thousand dollars later, and Jones Investigations had a website that made it to the first page of a Google Search, advertising space on a downtown bus route, and the beginnings of a social media presence, even if Killian mostly seemed to have commandeered the thing to make snarky Twitter commentary about Arsenal F.C, rather than the professionally focused posts Emma had originally suggested. But seeing as Emma's post-firing Twitter meltdown had gone viral on Buzzfeed for all of ten minutes, she had to concede she was maybe not the best person to be lecturing him on the finer points of social media decorum. So the soccer stayed. And even in spite of that, business picked up.

It began with a trickle of Facebook messages from sleazebags who seemed eager to get blackmail material on exes and bosses. A handful of unsolicited dick pics. But once the website went live, the real potential clients started calling. A jewellery store looking to investigate a series of thefts they suspected were an inside job. (They were.) A woman wondering if her husband was cheating on her. (He was. With his other wife.) An anxious father of the bride looking into his new son-in-law's past. (An annulled quickie marriage to someone named Destiny after a boys trip to Vegas when he was 21.)

And then came the call from Jefferson Dodgson.

"We don't do ex-husbands!" Killian declared, with a dismissive wave of his hand, when Emma held out the receiver to him. "Or ex-wives, for that matter," he clarified, in the name of equality. "Nothing but trouble. It's all point scoring and bloody vengeance. Someone's always in a snit because someone made off with the good china, and someone else got stuck with alternate weekends and-" He paused in the middle of his soliloquy when Emma made a frantic cutting motion with her throat.

" _And your assistant seems to have accidentally put me on speaker instead of hold_ ," came the rather chilly interruption, emanating clear as day from the ancient device on Emma's desk.

Killian went rigid, his eyes widening almost comically before he strode forward and snatched the receiver from Emma's still outstretched hand, punching off the speaker function with his other hand. " _Mister Dodgson_ ," he began, his voice at once taking on a silky smooth quality Emma had rarely heard him use outside of getting license plate numbers run by his usual roster of saps at the DMV. "How can we be of assistance today?"

His telephone manner remained impeccable throughout the call, even if Emma could still hear Mr Dodgson's raised voice on the other end from where she stood by the photocopier, attempting to be as unobtrusive as possible.

"We're digging up dirt on his ex's new fiancee," Killian announced with a groan, when the call ended, and he double-checked the connection had broken. "For half the usual fee." Emma tried to shrink back into the wallpaper, but still found herself fixed with a severe look, and on the receiving end of an accusatory finger pointed in her direction. "This one is on you, Swan. Divert the calls to your cell and grab your coat. We're going to put your superpower to work."

* * *

It wasn't really a  _superpower_ exactly. She couldn't like, fly or anything, or shoot lasers from her eyes. Nothing that would get her on the Avengers lineup with a matching spandex suit. But Emma did possess a singular talent, one that she'd never had to hone.

She could tell when someone was lying. Always.

So long as she was looking someone in the eye, she could always tell. She couldn't explain it exactly. August had come up with some plausible theories, to explain away her uncanny knack for always catching him out in his lies. The best one he'd come up with was also the most obvious. Bouncing from foster home to foster home, a young Emma Swan had become very good at reading her surroundings. It was a self-preservation thing. You'd be able to tell the crummy foster parents from the truly sadistic ones. You'd get yourself out, if something wasn't right.

It was an okay theory, she guessed. If you went in for that Intro to Psych stuff, Emma thought. But it never quite seemed to cover it. It wasn't about reading body language cues. She still slipped up when it came to that stuff.

In her first semester of college, Emma had thought the guy she who kept borrowing her notes in her Media Convergence seminar was hitting on her. It later transpired that he was just really bad at taking notes. And gay.

When Emma was 14, she'd lived in Minnesota for six months with a nice lady who'd wanted to adopt her. But before the paperwork could go through, the woman had some kind of psychotic break, and almost got the both of them killed by dragging Emma out into the middle of a four lane highway, believing some kind of magic would save them. Emma hadn't seen the signs until it was too late. She hadn't known to be wary.

Emma liked to think her instincts were pretty good, but they weren't perfect. Her lie detector on the other hand? Perfect. Every time.

It had always seemed odd to Emma that Killian never really questioned that particular quirk. August had brought it up the first time they'd ever met, down at the Rabbit Hole after Emma had helped August move all five boxes of his belongings up the stairs into their shared apartment all those years ago. Using Emma's great fake ID, they'd all settled into a table in the back with a whole lot of whiskey, and Killian, without any apparent trace of malice, asked for a demonstration. And Emma, so surprised that he didn't seem to be making fun of her, had acquiesced, with a few obligatory rounds of Two Truths, One Lie.

Killian Jones was born in Boston.  _True._

Killian Jones had an older brother.  _True._

Killian Jones went to law school at BU.  _Lie._ He'd gone to UMass. And he'd never finished.

He was delighted. They played round after round.

Killian Jones hated olives.  _True._

Killian Jones's middle name was Adam.  _Lie._ It was Brennan. After the father who'd run out on him when he was barely old enough to remember.  _A tale for another time,_  he'd winced, before taking another shot.

Killian Jones was a dog person.  _True._

Most people regarded Emma's superpower in either one of two ways; 1) Cynicism, as in they thought she was just making it up for attention, or 2) Wariness, as in, they didn't want to take their chances.

Killian was neither. He seemed to just take it for granted, as just one of those things. It seemed to Emma a strange position for a man with a rapidly dwindling opinion of the human race, and what they were capable of. But if his belief in her superpower got her out of the office for a while, and into the passenger seat of Killian's car, with its unlimited supply of stake-out candy, Emma wouldn't fight it.

Which is how they found themselves idling by the curb in a upmarket part of town, watching as a grey haired man in navy suit got out of his rather shiny Audi, and made his way into the building opposite, briefcase in hand.

"That him?" Emma asked between a mouthful of pretzels, nodding her head at the figure disappearing behind the automatic glass doors.

"That's him, alright. Chad Stephens. Just back from lunch." He tapped his wristwatch. "Right on time too."

"I've always hated the name Chad," Emma mused, mostly to herself, opening up another packet of pretzels. "Have you ever noticed that all guys named Chad turn out to be complete assholes?"

Killian swiveled around in his seat to regard her with an amused look. "I hadn't. But if that were true, that would bode well for our client and his suspicions."

" _His suspicions,_ " Emma sneered, causing Killian's eyebrows to furrow. "Oh, c'mon! The guy's ex moved on, and he can't take it. It's not exactly original, is it?"

"Perhaps not," he replied, his tone somewhat clipped. "But since there's a daughter caught in the middle of this, the least we can do is a thorough investigation,to ensure Mr Stephens is as legitimately dull as he appears be."

Emma bowed her head, momentarily chastened. She'd forgotten about the daughter. Grace. There was a picture of her in the file. Eight years old, with a toothy grin and a fondness for colorful hair baubles. But Killian didn't stop there.

"I know you think what I do is a bit of joke," he began quietly, his gaze firmly set on the building opposite. "Hanging around sleazy motels, waiting to catch cheaters in the act. Selling people's secrets to whoever will pay. It's not like we are exposing criminal malfeasance to the harsh light of day, or taking down corrupt cops. But we  _can_  make a difference, in our own small way. Set right some wrongs. Make sure a little girl's new stepfather isn't a complete bastard." He shrugged, his attention turning back inside the car, but the set of his jaw betrayed his anxiety.

Emma was stunned, not sure exactly how things had gone downhill so quickly. "Killian, I..."

"You'd better hurry," he interrupted, leaning over to take the still uneaten second bag of pretzels from her grasp. "You're his 1 o'clock."

" _Me?_ " she shrilled. "What do  _I_  have to insure?"

"I'm sure you'll think of something, Swan," he said in that same inscrutable tone, unclipping her seat belt for her. "You always do."

* * *

Life Insurance. That's what Emma came up with, as she traversed the long carpeted corridors of Raymond & Raymond Insurers, and a quick Google search on her phone confirmed it. Chad Stephens specialized in Life Insurance, and he provided obligation-free consultations.  _Thank god_. So Emma wouldn't actually be stuck paying premiums every month to this guy for the rest of her life, just so she could get a read on him. Unless he was  _really_ good at his job.

The first thing she noticed about Chad Stephens up close was his tie. Her eyes were naturally drawn away from his kind face and carefully parted hair to the cartoon characters which considerably brightened up his outfit. Alice in Wonderland characters, all. The Cheshire Cat. The Mad Hatter. The Queen of Hearts. Even Alice herself. Perhaps Emma was staring too hard, because Stephens cleared his throat, before extending his hand.

"Ms Swan, I presume?" His handshake was firm, but not too aggressive, just like they probably teach you in How To Sell Insurance 101.

"That's me," Emma managed, taking the offered chair in front of the desk, her gaze returning to the tie.

"I'm sorry, but I have to ask..."

"A gift from my daughter," he interrupted, with a small chuckle. "She's obsessed with Disney."  _My daughter,_ Emma thought. Not step-daughter. Not my fiancee's daughter.  _My_ daughter. That was interesting. And way to hit the ground running. Emma thought she'd have to bring in the family angle later, but this guy had brought it up first.

"Yeah?" Emma worked up a smile. "My six year old niece is a fiend for  _Frozen._ You leave her alone for two minutes, and she's out in the backyard throwing around snowballs and belting out Indina Menzel numbers."  _Lie._

His answering smile was warm. "Gracie prefers the classics. Lady and the Tramp. Snow White and the Seven Dwarves." He tapped his tie. "Alice in Wonderland, as you can see."  _Gracie._ Said with such affection. "No kids of your own?" he asked, pen raised to make a note of her answer.

"Ah. No. Not yet." Emma admitted. "Is that unusual, for your clients?"

"Well," he began, leaning back in his soft leather chair, managing to look both relaxed and informal, "Most of our clients are just looking for peace of mind. I'll admit that usually means young families, who feel like they might not necessarily have the assets to secure themselves financially in the long term should the worst happen. May I ask if you are married?" Emma had been waiting to see how long it would be before this guy whipped out the first  _peace of mind,_ and she was not disappointed. Still, she couldn't deny he was good at this. No wonder he was the one driving the Audi here.

"No, not married," Emma replied. "Just felt that maybe I should start looking into things. Being a real adult, all that." Cue wry smile.

"Of course, of course," he nodded seriously. "Well we certainly have some very affordable Young Singles rates available, if that's something you'd be interested in. Do you smoke at all?"

* * *

"Your man is on the up and up," Emma said first, once she'd swung herself back into the passenger seat, and snagged back her now half-eaten packet of pretzels. "Unless he's actually a psychopath, and  _very_ good at pretending to be on the up and up."

Killian ripped the packet out of her hands again, but not before Emma grabbed a handful of savory snacks. "And what does your superpower say?" he asked, one eyebrow raised in interest.

She shrugged. "He's a good guy. Devoted step-dad. Scarily good at his job. Do you think I can afford a $60 a month premium on my salary?" After that dressing down earlier, the small upward quirk of his lips at that felt like a small victory to Emma.

Killian turned the engine over, letting the roar of the engine mask his amusement. "Let's see what his background check says, before you commit to anything."

* * *

**A/N: I'd like to apologise to anyone named Chad for those things that I said. I have a cousin named Chad, and he seems like a decent sort. I just hate the way the name sounds with an American accent, and so I have harnessed that for my own evil ends.**


	8. Boston's Finest

Okay, so maybe it wasn't a complete surprise when Jefferson Dodgson was a little less than thrilled when the dossier he received back on his ex-wife's new fiancee revealed him to be just as sparkling clean as the custom leather interiors of his Audi Coupe, legally purchased, and well within the budget of a man who had won Massachusetts Independent Insurer's Top Life Insurance Salesperson of the Year, three times running.

What they hadn't expected, was for him to storm out of the office with his bill unpaid, slamming the door so hard behind him that the abstract art print on the wall opposite clattered to the floor, the glass frame busting on impact.

"We're adding that to your invoice, fuckface!" Emma called after him, the only reply to her words the echo of the exterior door to the street slamming shut behind him. She slumped down in her chair, watching as Killian got up to retrieve the pieces of broken glass off the floor, and the scattered sheets of paper from the dossier they'd just spent the last week compiling.

"He's not gonna pay us, is he?" Emma's eyes narrowed, taking in Killian's hunched shoulders and all-round defeated air, as he dropped everything straight into the trash.

"I very much doubt it, Swan," he affirmed with a sigh. " _This_ is why I don't do ex-husbands."

Emma felt another comment on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back. It wasn't the time. In fact, it might never be the time. She put the thought out of her mind, returning to the problem at hand. "Know any brawny types who look like they could break a few kneecaps over an unpaid bill?"

"Are you implying I'm not brawny, lass?" Killian raised an eyebrow, leaning against his desk so that he could roll up the cuffs of his dress shirt, accentuating the taut muscles in his forearms, and the handful of tattoos underneath.

It was a nice little display, but it didn't exactly leave her quaking in her boots. Not from fear, anyway. Emma rolled her eyes. "I'm saying we might want to outsource this one." He clutched at his heart dramatically, as though his pride had taken a fatal blow. Emma kept her face as impassive as possible.

"Alright, alright," he agreed. "I may have a line on one or two brawny types. God knows, it might save me from the circle of hell that is small claims court," he muttered. "They drink at a place not too far from here, and it's..." He consulted his wristwatch. "Just about happy hour. Shall we go?" He was already by the door, shrugging on his jacket by the time the question came.

"You want me to... come with you?" Emma asked uncertainly.

Killian just gave a vague wave of his hand which seemed to mean,  _of course._

"You already work with me,  _and_  live with me," Emma pointed out. "And now you want to go drinking with me too?"

He shrugged, his mouth contorting into a thoughtful frown. "It's a kind of a... working drink. A workplace outing, if you will. With rum. " His eyebrows rose meaningfully, but when she remained unmoved, there was a final, pregnant pause. "And... I'm buying."

And with those magic words, the grin on Emma's face snapped into place immediately. "I will take you up on that."

"Naturally," Killian drawled, holding her own jacket out for her to take, which she did, reaching up to pat his cheek in mocking consolation as she walked out ahead of him.

* * *

Finnegan's Tavern was a dive bar just a few blocks away, an easy walk despite the beginnings of what seemed to be the first snow flurry of the season falling around them, leaving flakes tangled in Emma's hair, and the streets gnarled in traffic chaos, as the city drivers found themselves caught unprepared by slippery roads. It would be back to beanies and gloves tomorrow, Emma thought, as she kept her hands jammed in the pockets of her jacket, wishing, not for the first time, that she would just once pick a jacket for its ability to keep her warm, rather than make her look cool. Beside her, Killian seemed to be faring no better, leather collar turned up against the wind, his cheeks pink in the cold.

It was a relief when they stepped into the warm confines of the bar, stamping their feet clean on the mat. Not that it made much difference really, the linoleum floor was filthy already with all the mud and melted snow tracked in by the 5pm crowd, a tripping hazard just waiting to happen. They fell upon the only spare table in the place, by the restrooms, of course, and Killian shrugged off his jacket.

"The usual, Swan?" he asked, placing his jacket down on the tabletop in a proprietary way. Emma elected to keep her jacket on, as she combed the last of the snowflakes from her hair with her fingers.

"A double," she replied, rubbing her hands over her frozen cheeks. "Something to warm me up." He bit his lip then, his eyes flashing mischievously, and she could tell he was swallowing down the double entendre. It was a credit to him, that he said no more, just set off for the bar with nothing but a small, over-dramatic bow in her direction.

_The idiot._

With the feeling returning to her extremities, Emma took her seat at the table and began to scan her surroundings. It had all the hallmarks of a working-class Irish pub in a traditionally working-class Irish neighborhood. The Guinness on tap. The familiar strains of "With or Without You" playing on the jukebox. The predominately green walls covered in generations' worth of framed memorabilia. Emma paused to examine a framed photograph in her vicinity, when the faded figure in the next picture over caught her attention. The man was in uniform. A  _police_ uniform. She scanned the next picture. More uniforms. Medals. Her skin began to prickle uncomfortably as her attention shifted back to her fellow patrons.

There were a handful of big guys in un-ironed office attire, ties loose around their necks. A group of aging jock types in Bruin jerseys camped out by the TV, gearing up for the early game. A smattering of grey haired guys in golf shirts, staring listlessly into their beer glasses. Nearly everyone was strapped.

_Fuck._

Killian barely made it back to the table with their drinks before Emma had grabbed him by the shoulders, hauling him out into the hallway and out of sight of the rest of the customers. "Are you crazy?!" she hissed, releasing her hold on his jacket so that he could fall back against the wooden paneling with a none-too-gentle thud. "I can't be in a cop bar!"

"Why ever not, Swan? You've paid your debt to society," he said breezily with a flash of a smile, and Emma resisted the urge to put her fist through those perfect teeth.

"Are you kidding me right now? Do you know how many cops have been suspended because of me? Lost their pensions because of me? They sure as hell deserved it, but do you think  _they'll_ see it that way?" She waved her arm to encompass the other drinkers. "You know what cops are like. They're tight knit, they look after their own, and they  _hate_  people like me." She took one of the glasses out of Killian's grasp, kind of impressed he hadn't managed to spill a drop, and knocked it back. "We have to go," she said, giving a slight shudder as it burned its way down her oesophagus. "Like, right now."

But before she could coax him into moving towards the exit, the door to the men's room opened, and a figure stumbled into the hall with them. And when he saw Emma standing there, he froze in place, his shirt half tucked back into his trousers. "Emma?"

She couldn't see his face clearly yet in the dim of the hallway, but she recognized the accent sure enough. " _Fuck_ ," she muttered under her breath, too late to take the coward's way out and make a mad dash for the ladies room.

"Graham," she nodded, and the figure drew nearer, his features coming into better view. Just as she remembered. The beard. The jawline. The unnecessarily stylish vest.

"It  _is you."_ He let his eyes travel over her, assess her. "You're the last person I'd expect to be skulking around the men's room at Finnegan's." He paused then, head cocking to the side as he considered those words. "On the other hand, now I think about it, it kind of suits you."

 _And there it was._ Emma felt the sting as keenly as she would have if he'd stabbed her with a rusty blade.

"And who is Emma Swan's lucky mark tonight?" he wondered aloud, letting his attention shift at last to Killian, who'd been watching the proceedings with rapt fascination. Graham's eyes widened as he took in the familiar figure. "Jones?"

Emma couldn't take any more. "You  _know_ each other?!" Emma could feel the rush of blood to her head as her worlds collided.

"Well..." Killian began, rubbing his thumb over his right earlobe. "You remember that poker game we spoke of, Swan?"

She jerked her thumb at Graham. " _This_ is the dupe you wanted me to bankrupt? You're  _poker buddies?!"_

"Dupe?" Graham repeated, but both Emma and Killian ignored him.

"I'm going to go with unhappy former source?" Killian asked with a raised brow.

"That would be wishful thinking," Emma muttered.

"With a side helping of vengeful ex!" He looked like he couldn't believe his luck. "Christ, Swan," he said, shaking his head. "I really shouldn't have brought you here."

" _You think?!"_ She was prepared to expand on that thought, when they were both brought back into the here and now by a pointed cough.

"So," Graham began, "Interesting company you are keeping these days, Jones."

"Never a dull moment, Humbert," Killian shrugged, flattening himself against his side of the hallway to let the other man pass by. But he didn't, still rooted to the spot in front of Emma, frown set as if she was a particularly difficult puzzle he just couldn't figure out.

"I don't get it," he said after a few moments of awkward silence. "Are you a PI now? Or are you just trying to suck a story out through his dick too?"

Killian lunged forward, but she caught him in time, grasping him tightly around the wrist with a surprising amount of strength, and hauling him backwards before he could do anything too stupid, like start a fight in a cop bar. With a cop. Their gazes caught for a moment, and when she was reasonably sure he wasn't going to try it again, she turned her attention back to Graham, who was still standing there, for lack of a better term, seething.

"I didn't use your name," she began, but even to her own ears it sounded pitiful. "I didn't use your sources. It was  _just_ background."

Graham scoffed. "I know you know the difference between background and off-the-record, Emma. You just didn't care enough about me to keep your fucking mouth shut."

Emma could feel Killian twitch behind her, since she still had a grip on his arm, but he didn't say anything, leaving the way clear for Emma to say the words she should have said long before.

"I am sorry, Graham. Really sorry. " Her apology was genuine, but Graham just rolled his eyes.

"No you're not, Emma," he muttered, his words steeped in bitterness. "If you were sorry you would have called." And after fixing her with one last look which came dangerously close to loathing, he slid past them back out into the bar.

* * *

Once Graham was out of sight, Emma let go of Killian's arm. Free from her grasp, he shook out the limb to get his circulation back, letting out a low whistle through his teeth. "Christ, Swan. You really screwed him over."

" _Fuck off,"_ Emma deadpanned, taking the second glass from his other hand and downing the contents with an undignified cough.

"Better?" he asked.

"Not even a little bit," she admitted, handing him back the glass.

"Well, the worst is over now!" he said brightly. "Might as well stay for another round." Emma just shot him her most withering look.

"I'll grant you, that was uncomfortable..." he began, and Emma scoffed.  _Uncomfortable_  was walking ten blocks home in new shoes. Standing by as a guy you used to really care about calls you out for being the worst ex-girlfriend ever, in front of your new boss? W _hole different ball park._

Still, they made their way back to their table, still mercifully unclaimed thanks to the presence of Killian's jacket draped across it, and Emma collapsed onto her stool.

"Thanks for not punching him," Emma blurted. "He's not a bad guy. He's just..."

"Hurt," Killian supplied.

"Yeah," Emma's gaze went to the floor. "I really screwed the pooch on that one."

"Such a delightful American phrase," Killian winced. "But don't forget. I know him. Well enough to know he's usually much more respectful in his dealings with the fairer sex..." There was an edge creeping into his voice.

"You know I don't need you protecting my virtue, right?" Emma glanced back up, to make sure he understood. "It's nice that you'd be willing to punch someone on my behalf... maybe. But you're not my brother. And even  _he_ isn't allowed to go around hitting people just for saying hurtful yet true things about me. No matter how much I wish he could sometimes."

"As you can see, Swan," Killian said, opening his arms wide, indicating his uninjured knuckles. "My better nature prevailed."

"Good," Emma smiled at last. "So..." she said, taking another glance around the place, being careful to avoid the area by the TV where Graham and his buddies were stationed, "You're looking for muscle... in a cop bar?"

It didn't seem like the ideal place to look for people set on fear and intimidation. Not the unlawful kind, anyway.

"Nooooo," Killian corrected. "I'm looking for a pitbull of a man with a license to carried concealed, in a cop bar. How do you rate my chances?" he asked, flashing a grin. Emma poked her tongue out at him.

"I do, in fact, have a candidate in mind. And when I get back from the bar, I shall introduce you," he said slipping from his stool. "Another rum?" Emma held up two fingers, and he nodded, took a step away, then paused. "And do try to remain as inconspicuous as possible," he advised with a wink.

* * *

When Killian returned, he didn't return alone, a tall, handsome guy with Bullitt style gun holsters and a bad case of cop face, beside him.

"Emma Swan, this is David Nolan. David, Emma." he said by way of introduction, and Emma reached across to shake the new arrival's hand, his grip firm and warm in her own. Killian turned to Emma. "David's part of the poker group," he explained. Then he covered his mouth with his hand so David couldn't see and mouthed the word "dupe". Then he turned to David with a grin. "And Emma here is the viper who ripped out poor Graham's hear-" He faltered at the end, when Emma's boot crunched down on his instep, but he recovered quickly, painting his smile back on. "And my lovely assistant," he managed, with only a hint of wheezing.

David Nolan just looked between the two of them, amusement evident on his face. "And you want me to do... what exactly, Jones?"

"How do you feel about issuing some low grade threats?" Killian hedged.

David just blinked at him, unmoved.

"Yeah, okay, that was a long shot," Killian admitted. "How about just knocking on a door and handing over an envelope whilst pulling that exact face?" he asked hopefully, holding his fingers out to capture said expression in a framed shot like he was a try-hard Hollywood director.

"And  _what_  exactly makes you think I'd be willing to put my career on the line, to play your hired thug for the day?"

"Thug is such a strong word..." Killian sighed, and Emma snorted. "But there is the small matter of what the man did to that art print your lovely wife gave me last Christmas..."

That got David's attention, if the way his whole posture changed was any indication.

"Ruined!" Killian decried. "And after she'd had it especially mounted, at no small expense." He let that sink in, and Emma caught herself holding her breath.

"And what would I have to say?" David sighed in resignation.

Killian's victorious smile was practically blinding in its intensity, as he turned back to Emma. "What did I tell you, Swan?" he said, leaning close to whisper in her ear. " _Dupe_."


	9. Breadcrumbs - Part One

Emma wasn't exactly sure what it was that David did or did not say to Jefferson Dodgson, plausible deniability and all that. All she knew was that a check showed up in their mailbox by the following week, and it cleared by Friday. And so Jones Investigations limped on for another week, and Emma could pay her rent through until December.

She missed her apartment. She missed her super fast internet, and her bathtub, and her easy proximity to Granny's. She even missed her dead fern. It's not that she didn't appreciate Killian putting her up. She did. She really did. But there was certainly something to be said for waking up in the morning without a tiny dog lapping at your face like it was an ice cream cone.

It was the breakfasts that really kept her there. That and the fact her apartment still didn't have heat. But it was mostly the breakfasts.

Killian, by his own admission, was not exactly a master chef. Having been raised by his older brother, who was barely more than a teenager himself at the time, his culinary adventures growing up had been limited to bowls of Rice Krispies, and an ungodly amount of something called "beans on toast". Together with Emma's enduring love affair with Pop-Tarts, they made quite the pair. Dinner most nights was cold Thai takeout or a pizza dug out of the freezer. They'd sprung for delivery on Thanksgiving, in between devouring every Jimmy Stewart classic in Killian's paltry, albeit alphabetized, DVD collection. The man didn't even have Netflix, for god's sake.

But breakfast? That was a skill Killian had cultivated over time. He'd probably learned it to please Milah, when she'd moved in and he'd found her palate ever so slightly more refined than his previous roommate's, but even if that were the case, Emma was happy to reap the rewards. And boy, did she reap them. Every morning, after she awoke to her giddy canine companion lapping at every inch of her exposed skin, and after she dragged herself into the bathroom to wash up, she would emerge to a veritable feast laid out in readiness.

The man couldn't so much as peel a potato, but eggs were a whole other matter. Scrambled. Fried. Poached. Fucking frittatas. If it had eggs in it, and could be cooked over a stove in less than ten minutes, there it would be, piled high on a plate as she took a seat, a cup of steaming coffee slid towards her by a smirking Englishman.

Emma couldn't deny it. She could get used to this.

August had been the cook between the two of them, but with the unsociable hours he kept, breakfasts had always been much more on-the-go affairs. A breakfast burrito at her desk in the newsroom. A muffin scarfed down in the back of a cab in between interviews. This thing with Killian seemed a lot more, dare she say it, civilized. Though he was an early riser, and never managed to look half so bedraggled in the mornings as she did, she was glad to find he never tried to force breakfast conversation. They shared a comfortable silence as they both ate and read the latest news, him with his subscriber copy of the Globe, her browsing Twitter on her phone. There was an unspoken agreement that Emma would load the dishwasher after, and clear away the condiments. In short, it made for a scarily domestic scene, one which would have scared Emma half to death if it had been with any one else. But after near two months of living with the guy, she thought was coming around to understanding the way he operated.

He wasn't quite like her. He didn't get obsessive, or fly off half-cocked, chasing down some half-baked lead, breakfast an inconvenient afterthought. Everything he did, he approached methodically, purposefully. Plans were drawn up, considered, and executed, in that order. Who knew when he woke up, but breakfast was hot on the table every morning at 7, and he would have already walked Smee and showered before then. He'd be in the office by 9, and unless he was off on a stake-out, when 5 rolled around, he'd be out the door for his evening pint at the Rabbit Hole before the stupid old fashioned clock he kept tacked up behind his desk had even finished chiming.

One might say it was a boring way to live. Emma might have said that. But it was stable, for the most part, thieving secretaries notwithstanding. She had to give it that. Stability was not something Emma had ever known much about, but Killian had it in spades.

So when she awoke one otherwise unremarkable Thursday morning, her face suspiciously free of dog saliva, and the apartment silent of the usual morning cacophony of the exhaust fan over the stove and the tell-tale clattering of cutlery, she knew something was up. Creeping out into the kitchen, still clad only in the over-sized sweatshirt she wore to bed, holding the hem down at her sides in case she encountered anyone, she saw no signs of life. Not even Smee. It wasn't until she made the inevitable trek to the coffee maker that she saw the note, stuck to the counter beside the still-warm pot.

**_Swan,_ **

**_Took Smee to stay with a friend. Delicate case. Best if I handle it alone. Enjoy the day off._ **

**_K_ **

And then below that, in a messier scrawl, almost as an afterthought,

**_P.S. There are some bear claws in the freezer. Preheat oven. 10 minutes or so at 350 degrees. Try not to set the place on fire._ _  
_ **

That was new. Not the feeding part, that was kind of part and parcel of the whole overbearing boss/friend/roommate dynamic they had going on. But the day off? And  _delicate?_ What did that even mean? Two days ago she had literally sat by as Killian had told a woman that her husband had been conducting an affair behind her back  _with her own sister,_ and then handed her the pictures to prove it. Hell, Emma had been the one who'd had to go to the store to stock up on Kleenex again after.

And why couldn't Smee be around? She had the day off. She was perfectly capable of dog-sitting for the day.

Emma was only half way through her first pastry when she decided to do what she did best, and snoop around. Some time between 11pm the night before, when Killian had shuffled off to bed with a weary wave in her direction, and 6am that morning, something had come up. Something big.

She checked the usual places first. The answering machine. The notepad by the phone. She even hacked into the Jones Investigations voicemail with the code he didn't know she knew. Nothing of note. With only a tiny flash of guilt, she cracked open his bedroom door, unsurprised to find his room in a state of cleanliness that bordered on anal. Not too willing to uncover his secret porn collection, or whatever it was that guys kept under their mattresses, she kept her search as non-invasive as possible, keeping it to what she could find in plain sight. Never had she been so thankful for his analog ways, when she spotted the notepad by the bed. The first page was unmarked, by there were slight indentations in the paper, from when he had written the proceeding note. With some careful shading, Emma had the contents of the previous note.

**_Michael Tillman?_ **

The name meant nothing to her, but the one written below it certainly rang a bell.

_**Dory Zimmer.** _

And suddenly, Killian's secret squirrel actions were beginning to make a lot more sense, in hindsight.

* * *

Emma was halfway up the stairs to Jones Investigations when the inner door to the office flew open, a well-heeled woman stepping out onto the landing, fiddling with the clasp to her designer coat. When she saw Emma ascending, she froze in her motions, eyes widening like a deer caught in the headlights.

Dory Zimmer looked thinner than she had on TV. Paler. The dark circles under her eyes were more prominent, the furrow in her forehead deeper. It was picture she formed within the space of a second, before Emma quickly averted her gaze, appearing as uninterested in the woman as possible as she passed her by, not even appearing to give her a second look.

It seemed to work, as out of the corner of her eye, she saw the woman visibly relax, before making her swift escape onto the street. Emma sighed with relief. Whatever had brought her to their door, and Emma had her suspicions about that, she had no desire to compromise her wish to keep her visit on the down low. And when someone with money went with a nobody firm like Jones Investigations, they were always wanting to keep things on the down low.

Emma let herself in, the sound of the door slamming shut behind her, startling Killian from where he sat regarding his computer screen through tired eyes. "Ah, and here was I thinking you'd be halfway into a Gilmore Girls marathon by now," Killian said by way of greeting, straightening in his chair.

"No, you didn't," she countered, perching on the end of his desk, and pulling off her gloves, finger by finger. "Otherwise you wouldn't have gotten someone else to mind your dog."

"No, I didn't," he agreed with a weary sigh, rubbing his face in his hands in an attempt to seem more awake, and only succeeding in looking even more disheveled than before. "But you can't fault a man for trying."

"So," Emma began. "Who's Michael Tillman?"  _Nothing like just tearing off the Band-Aid._

His eyes narrowed immediately, accusingly. "You and I are really overdue a conversation about boundaries, Swan."

She didn't argue that point, shrugging out of her coat and draping it over one of the chairs by his desk set aside for visitors. It was still warm to the touch when she collapsed onto it, tucking her feet underneath her. "You mean a conversation, like the one we already had about you not being an overprotective ass?"

If anything his eyes narrowed further, but Emma didn't blink. They held each others gaze for a long moment, but Emma was first to break the silence. "Okay... so why don't you start with Dory Zimmer? What does she need with Jones Investigations? Doesn't she already have an entire task force at her disposal?"

She did. Because when an eleven year old white girl from one of Boston's most exclusive enclaves disappears from her bedroom in the middle of the night without a trace, you can bet that the police are going to be on that like white on rice.  _That's_  where Emma knew Dory Zimmer from. The televised press conference with the family. Mom. Dad. Twin brother. All dressed in their most somber-looking designer outfits, delivering a tearful plea for her safe return. It had been the top news story in the nation for the past three days. Little Ava Zimmer, somehow spirited away from her cookie-cutter family in their cookie-cutter mansion, all without anyone seeing a thing.  _It was the kind of crime which ripped at the very heart of the American dream_ , was how one TV pundit had colorfully put it.

And though Emma knew Killian to be a competent enough investigator, she wasn't sure what he would bring to the table that a roomful of police detectives, with all of their resources, couldn't.

"Killian?" she prompted, when her first query went unanswered, rising to her feet to lean over his desk. "This isn't just an all-hands-on-deck situation. I saw how skittish Mrs Zimmer was just now, worried someone might see her leaving. There's more to this. And like it or not, I'm here to help. So spill."

To say that Killian looked put-upon was putting it mildly. "You're really not one for minding your own business, are you?" he said shaking his head, but Emma could see his resolve slipping.

"You're only just now figuring that out?" she teased. And when she saw the corner of his lips twitch into a smile, and she knew she had him.

He did a good job of hiding it though, schooling his features into something sterner, reminiscent of school principals in years past. "I had good reason for keeping you out of things, lass."

Emma knew that. She'd known that as soon as she had seen Dory Zimmer's name on that notepad, and recalled the school picture of Ava Zimmer that had been plastered across the Twittersphere. Little Ava Zimmer. 11 years old. Blonde haired. Green eyed. A near dead-ringer for Emma at the same age. Little Emma Swan, who'd run away from a foster home in the middle of a Cincinnati winter after one too many drunken beatings, and no one had assembled a task force to find her.

How Killian even knew about that, she knew only one man could be responsible.  _Fucking August._

"Remember how we agreed I don't need protecting?"

" _You agreed,"_ Killian corrected. "I just didn't argue the point. I pick my battles where you're concerned, Swan," he said with a wry smile. "And I might mention that my reticence to call you in on this didn't  _wholly_ stem from a perfectly logical protective urge." Emma raised her eyebrows at that. "There's also an economic angle. Stated plainly: There isn't going to be a payday at the end of this, and I can't ask you to work for free."

But of course. How infuriatingly noble of him, to take on a pro-bono case, when they were struggling to keep the lights on. "And..." he continued. "I really did want to get Mrs Zimmer's measure on my own, without you around. You can be a little..." he trailed off when he saw Emma spine straighten, her arms folding over her chest.

"A little... what?" She asked, the indignation radiating off her in waves.

"Prickly?" he replied with an apologetic smile.

"I'm prickly?" she repeated, dismayed, letting one arm drop down to support her weight against the desk. It wasn't the  _worst_ thing she'd even been called, but she'd always preferred  _tenacious,_ herself.

Killian merely reached over to clap a consoling hand on her shoulder. "Like a pear, love."

* * *

"You still haven't told me where we're going," Emma repeated for what felt like the hundredth time, as she watched the seemingly endless miles of derelict car yards and boarded-up convenience stores disappear past her passenger-side window.

"No, but you agreed to come anyway. Really, you've no one to blame but yourself."

Killian's grin was damn near infuriating, and Emma let out a huff, returning to her study of the seedier side of Central Massachusetts. The snacks had run out shortly before Worcester, and Killian had refused her demands for a coffee stop. With nothing left to distract her, and her phone dead after too many rounds of Candy Crush to alleviate the tedium, cabin fever was starting to take hold. She needed out of that damn car.

"Fine!" Emma threw her hands up in defeat. "I'm sorry I went into your room without asking. It was " _bad form_ " and I solemnly swear I won't ever do it again. Will you  _please_ tell me where we are going?"

Killian took an excruciatingly long time to turn his head back in her direction. Then he paused, considering her half-baked apology with a thoughtful frown. "No, sorry. I just don't  _feel_  the remorse."

"Killian FUCKING Jones!" Emma shouted, resisting the urge to climb over the center console and strangle him. "I will punch you in the face right now if you don't start talking!"

" _While I'm driving?_ " he asked, a look of mock horror on his face. " _You wouldn't_ ," he said, clutching at his chest like the dramatic asshole he was. He really was going to drive her to murder if he wasn't careful.

"We'll start small," Emma began, trying to contain her seething. "Where's Smee?"

"Smee, at this very moment, is probably chewing his way through all of the custom furnishings in Tink's 12th floor corner office."

"Tink?" Emma asked, casting her mind back hoping it would catch on something. She had met a Tink before, she thought. Tinkerbell. Not exactly a common name. A tiny blonde, she remembered, from the Rabbit Hole back when Emma was still having to bluff her way in with a fake ID. She was the one before Milah. The one whose parents had been hippies. Because, really, who else calls their kid Tinkerbell? "Your college girlfriend?"

"Aye," he affirmed, with a tell-tale scratch of his ear. "That's the one. Unlike yours truly, she actually finished law school. Did rather well out of it too. Managed to defy all of her parent's hopes for her and joined one of the largest law firms in Boston. She's already made junior partner. And guess who she represents?"

"Dory Zimmer," Emma breathed.

"Aye. Now you're getting it." It certainly explained why there hadn't been a message left on the office voice mail. She'd called him direct.

"And Michael Tillman fits into all of this,  _how_?"

"Well, Swan," he said, reaching up a hand to indicate right off the highway. "I certainly didn't drag you out into the industrial wilds of The City of Firsts because you make for such a delightful road trip companion."

* * *

Tillman's Garage was a tiny auto-mechanic's just off the interstate, a mom-and-pop operation showing all the signs of struggling to compete with the big boys, if the peeling paint and general ramshackle appearance was any indication. Killian pulled up on the cracked driveway outside the main roller doors, and killed the engine.

"You gonna fill me in, or do you expect me to just wing it again?" Emma asked, unclasping her seatbelt, and rotating her shoulders to remove any lingering stiffness.

"I'll do the talking," Killian said, as he handed her her jacket from the backseat. "I just want you to do what you do best."

"Stand around and look pretty?" Emma scowled, jamming on her beanie with more force than strictly necessary.

"Of course not," Killian grinned at the look on her face, reaching across to tuck a few strands of hair under her hat. "I want you to tell me if he is lying." She settled for poking her tongue out at him, like she was five.

She'd barely gotten two steps out of the car, when a figure emerged from the open roller door, clad in a pair of oil-stained overalls and carrying a socket-wrench.  _What?_ Emma had taken shop in high school.  _She knew things_. And when he caught sight of Killian's Charger, in all of it's shiny, muscle-car glory, he gave a low whistle.

"Please don't break my heart and tell me you've injured this poor baby," he began, stepping out into the forecourt, reaching out a hand to caress her hood. The name patch on his overalls read  _Michael._ They were definitely in the right place.

She didn't miss Killian's smirk, as the other man practically fawned over his car. "She's fine. Better than fine, actually. I was more hoping you could help with some directions?"

Michael Tillman barely managed to tear his gaze away from the Charger's sleek lines, to take in Killian's words. "You're a limey?" Emma resisted the urge to laugh at how fast Killian's smile vanished. She wasn't the only one who noticed, the man hurrying to make amends. "Knew you couldn't be a local. Not with that rig. It's all minivans and pick-ups around this way," he said, indicating the industrial park they'd found themselves in. "Where you headed?"

"We're headed up to Amherst, actually. I think I took a strange turn off the 1-90..."

Tillman chuckled. "Yeah, must have been some strange turn if you're headed up that-a-way. You zigged when you should have zagged, my friend." He cast a glance across at Emma, who was busy trying to appear distracted by her phone. "Then again," he said, drawing Killian in with a conspiratorial stage whisper, "When a man has such a lovely driving companion, he might find himself easily distracted." Emma almost bit a hole straight through her lip in her effort to keep quiet, as the two played out their little macho bonding ritual.

"Thought we'd get out of the city for a bit," she heard Killian say, as the two plotted the best way back to the interstate over a faded map of Massachusetts Tillman had brought out from his office, and laid over the hood. "Seems to be getting worse every year. I went to school in Amherst for a while. Thought it might be a nice place to settle down. White picket fence. 2.5 kids. Golden retriever. You know, all that bullshit. I've got an interview with a firm up there. Thought I might give it a shot." His hand nudged hers in an experimental kind of way, and Emma, swallowing back her exasperation, twined her hand in his like any good fake girlfriend would do, shooting him what she hoped looked like a wistful smile about their Stepford Wives future together.

Tillman chuckled again, taking a pencil out from behind his ear to mark the best route North. "You kids look too young to be settling down. Never did find that special someone, myself. Thought I did, for a while. But..." He gave a self-deprecating shrug. "That's life, right?" She felt Killian's grip on her hand tighten, and she looked up at him to find his gaze fixed firmly in the middle distance, avoiding eye contact, and she knew then he was thinking about Milah. She returned what she hoped he would consider a consolatory hand squeeze, turning back to Tillman before he could detect the mood shift.

"No kids?" Emma jumped in, giving Killian a moment.

"No," he said, almost regretfully. "My sister's got herself a couple of rugrats, though. Little girls. It's all tea parties and horses with them right now." Emma found herself smiling at the thought of this man, with his stained overalls and jocular manner sitting down to drink imaginary tea with his nieces.

"Sounds fun," she replied.

"Can be," he agreed, "though I don't quite understand why the cake has to be imaginary too."

With a little more polite chit-chat, and a few last minute recommendations of the best coffee stops on the way, Emma and Killian were back in the car again, headed back to the interstate, making a turn contrary to Tillman's well-meaning advice.

"So, was he lying, Swan?" Killian said at last, after a few miles of less than comfortable silence.

" _About what_? If Darcy's Coffee does actually serve the best donuts in all of Central Massachusetts? Or if he really does think your car is the sexiest automobile on four wheels?"

"About any of it," he barked, with maybe a little more bite than she would have expected. Chalking it up to Milah-related weirdness, Emma let it slide, turning her attention back to the uninspiring scenery.

"He seemed... genuine," she shrugged.

"You're sure?" She heard the creak of leather as he shifted in his seat, and she looked back to find him regarding her carefully.

"Well, I mean, you know it isn't an exact science. But yeah, I didn't get any blips on the ol' lie detector," she said, tapping her temple with her finger.

"Not even when you asked him about having kids?" he persisted.

He was being oddly intense about this, and Emma wasn't sure she liked it. "Killian, what the hell did we come out here for?"

"You're sure?" he repeated.

" _Yes!_ " she shouted back, the force of her answer practically reverberating in the space between them.

"Well," he said at last, letting out a long sigh. "I guess he isn't our guy."

"Wait a minute," said Emma, holding up a hand, mind scrambling to keep up. "You thought that  _that guy_ took Ava Zimmer? What the hell? Why would he?"

"Why indeed, Swan," he said, catching her eye. "He's Ava and Nicholas Zimmer's biological father."


	10. Breadcrumbs - Part Two

He didn't get to just drop a bomb like that and go back to fiddling with the radio tuner.

"I'm sorry,  _what did you just say?!"_ Emma said, batting his hand away from the controls. One look at her face, and Killian blew out a breath, reaching out a finger to indicate right, and pulled over into the nearest rest stop, leaving the engine idling.

He shrugged, as if he hadn't just blown the whole Ava Zimmer case wide open. "Twelve years ago, Dory Zimmer and Michael Tillman embarked on a tempestuous, whirlwind romance. He thought it was love.  _She_  thought it was a good way to blow off steam when her husband wasn't around. I'm sure you can guess the rest. He got a broken heart. She got twins raised on an investment banker's salary, rather than that of a mechanic's."

Okay, so things were beginning to click. The reason behind all the cloak-and-dagger shenanigans. The pre-dawn phone call from Tink. Dory Zimmer's anxiety on not being seen leaving Jones Investigations. The driving halfway across the state without a single word of explanation. Killian's altogether shitty mood.

" _That's_ what Tink called you about this morning." It wasn't a question, not really.

"Aye. Dory Zimmer confided in her, confident that the strictures of attorney-client privilege would save her what the truth would cost her."

"Her marriage?" Emma guessed.

Killian snorted unkindly. "Her alimony, more like. If her husband ever finds out that his kids aren't really his kids? Let's just say, it might fuck with that Ladies Who Lunch lifestyle she is so fond of.  _That's_ why the police haven't been informed as to Ava's true parentage. And yes,  _that's_  why Tink called me, and not some other PI she found on the first page of a Google search." A pointed look there. "She knew I could be counted on to keep my trap shut. Something that I should remind you now also applies to you, since I've brought you into my confidence, mostly against my will."

Emma ignored the dig, acknowledging her understanding of her newfound responsibilities with the wave of her hand. Contrary to what Graham thought, she could keep a secret. She'd once been threatened with contempt of court for failing to produce a source, and she hadn't flinched. And this was Massachusetts. There weren't shield laws in place to protect her from jail. She'd just lucked out with the judge. So if Dory Zimmer wanted to keep the paternity of her kids under wraps, Emma wouldn't be the one to spill the beans. But in light of this new information, it did present a question in her mind, as to how much of Killian's insistence on leaving her out of things was his bumbling attempt at protecting her, and how much was that he simply didn't trust her.

Not that she'd blame him, exactly. His last assistant  _had_ screwed him over rather royally. He could stand to be more cautious. And Emma... could have handled the Graham situation better. Or at all. Instead of doing what was easiest and ignoring it, leaving it to fester like an open wound. Not her finest moment. But she had hoped... It didn't matter. Killian knew her well enough to know she'd get involved anyway, palming off his dog on his ex-girlfriend, with whom he was still on surprisingly good terms, and brought her out into the middle of nowhere, knowing he'd have to fess up eventually. She was still in the loop, and that wasn't nothing.

She brought her thoughts back to Dory Zimmer. She tried to see it from her point of view. This was a woman who had a lot to lose. A nice house. A picture perfect suburban family. No independent wealth of her own. She possessed a secret which had the power to rip her family, and the life that she had built, to shreds. Emma got that. She understood the urge to protect what's yours. But hadn't Dory Zimmer's perfect life already been torn apart? Ava had already been missing for three days, and as everyone who'd ever watched a network cop show knew, the first 72 hours in any missing persons case were crucial. And yet, she'd kept a potentially important lead from the police? All for what?

"I'm assuming since she came around this morning, Tink convinced her not to sit on that information...?" Emma began.

"Adulterous gold digger though she is, she does want her daughter home safe. Just not at the expense of her reputation, of course," he said, not quite managing to keep his sarcasm in check.  _Nice people, his clients._

If he was hoping to hide his disdain for Mrs Zimmer, and his contempt for her behavior, he was doing a less than stellar job of it. If anything, he was being judgy as hell. Not an altogether attractive quality in a PI, but Emma thought she knew why he was acting like this, and it had less to do with his overall disapproval of the WASP set, and more to do with a certain someone who'd recently ripped his heart out to join their ranks.

But again, Emma was letting herself get distracted. Milah didn't matter. Even Dory Zimmer didn't matter. What mattered was Ava, and where the hell she'd gone.

"We have to turn around," Emma said at once.

"Come again?" Whatever Killian had been expecting to come out of her mouth, it clearly wasn't that.

"You're not seriously basing Michael Tillman's innocence on my ten minute conversation with him, are you? I know you think my superpower really works, but we're talking about a girl's _life_  here! I mean-"

"Emma," he said, unclipping his seatbelt to reach forward and place his hands on her shoulders, before she could descend into a full-blown freak out. "Emma," he repeated, his words careful and considered. "I  _will_  check up on him. I'll even get a local source to scout around his house and keep an eye on him, in case he makes any suspicious deviations in his routine. But I ask you again, truthfully now, did he  _for even a second_ , strike you as a man who knew he was father? Let alone someone who would take it into their head to kidnap an eleven year old from his former-lover's home in the middle of the night?"

His blue eyes were fixed on hers, willing her to come to the obvious conclusion.

She thought of Michael Tillman, and the way he'd responded to her question about having kids. There hadn't been any panic in his eyes. None of that wariness you'd expect from a man with a secret daughter stashed away somewhere. There had just been that hint of longing in his eyes, that flare of regret from a road not taken. He hadn't set off her superpower, not even a little. He hadn't been lying. He really didn't know he was a Dad.

"No," she replied, finally, resisting the urge to shrug out of his grip, feeling uncomfortable under his direct gaze. "He didn't."

"Then that's enough for me," he said with a small half-smile, releasing her shoulders with a final squeeze. "We'll concentrate our efforts on other possibilities, until the girl is found."

"You and I both know that's not guaranteed," she said tersely, exchanging a look with him before he busied himself securing his seatbelt again, and putting the car back into gear. "And besides, aren't we done now? It was just the Tillman angle the police didn't know about, right? The task force can surely handle the rest."

"Well..." he said, slinging a casual arm over her seat as he reversed back to where the entrance to the interstate began. "That depends entirely on you, Swan. I, for one, don't have much else on my plate this week. How about you?"

* * *

The Zimmer mansion, and it was  _definitely_  a mansion, lay in Chestnut Hill, not far from Boston College. It was an obnoxiously large Colonial Revival home, set on an egregiously spacious parcel of land, practically indistinguishable from the other behemoths which fell on either side. This was the land of Red Sox owners, and Governors, and, it was rumored, Tom Brady. Or investment bankers who came from money, like one Greg Zimmer.

It was certainly a pretty big leg up from Tillman's autoshop outside of Springfield, that was for sure.

The house was set back from the road, mostly obscured by a line of strategically placed shrubberies for maximum privacy. For some reason, the word opulent sprang to mind, as Emma watched the house disappear into the rear-view on their first scan of the neighborhood. It wasn't like they could just go up and ring the front doorbell, and ask for a tour. Dory Zimmer would have a conniption, what with Killian knowing what he did. And who knew how the Newton Police would react, with a strange PI sidling up to their investigation?

It was more to get the lay of the land. A feel for the scene of the crime.

According to the police reports, Ava Zimmer was last seen in her bedroom at approximately 9pm on the night of November 29th, when her mother tucked her in. Her disappearance was not discovered until 7am the next morning, when the nanny came to wake her in time for school. According to reports, nothing had been obviously missing save for Ava herself, her bed sheets still wrinkled from sleep. It was like she'd simply vanished in the middle of the night. After two hours, and a thorough search of the grounds by both Mrs Zimmer and the nanny, the police were notified. By 10am, there was an AMBER Alert out for her, her school photograph circulated across the state, appealing to the public for information. A tip line had been set up. The task force followed.

Emma had gone to school with someone who joined the Staties on graduation, and was busy working her way up to detective. It was towards her that Emma directed her next call, once she'd charged her phone at the nearest Starbucks.

" _Seriously_ , Emma? There's a little girl missing and you want a scoop right now?" Ashley Boyd wasn't the same timid girl Emma remembered from Criminology 101, who'd been reluctant to speak up in class, in fear of getting laughed it. A fact that didn't escape Emma's attention when she waylaid her outside a coffee shop near the Middlesex County DA's office. It was in her bearing. In the 15 pounds of lean muscle she seemed to have acquired since her academy days. In the no-nonsense ponytail and the .45 strapped to her hip. Ashley Boyd, Trooper First Class, was an entirely different animal.

"You still like vanilla lattes, right?" Emma asked, dangling the to-go cup in front of her face.

The instant spark in her eyes betraying her, Ashley snatched it from her grasp, and Emma bit her lip to hide her victorious smile. Like everyone else who'd been called in to assist with the Zimmer case, she was probably running mostly on fumes at this point. "Five minutes," she grumbled, surfacing from her first glorious sip. "You're lucky my partner's stopped home for a shower and a change of clothes."

They sat in the front of her patrol car, parked nearby, with the heater cranked, the occasional crackle of the police scanner their only interruption.

"I'm not here on a story," Emma began, and Ashley snorted.

"This delicious cup of joe says otherwise," she pointed out, taking another long sip.

"I  _am_ working the Zimmer case. But not as a journalist. I'm working for a PI right now. He's lending a hand."

"Lending a hand?" She turned around to fix Emma with an incredulous look. "Do you  _know_ how much money they are sinking into this task force? All the over-time anyone could ask for. Trust me, Emma, they don't need a hand. They need enthusiastic amateurs to step back and let them do their jobs."

Emma sighed into her own cup of coffee. "You're seriously telling me that your guys are any closer to finding Ava Zimmer than they were three days ago?  _Really_?"

Ashley fixed her with a sharp look. "You know I can't talk about how the investigation is going."

Meaning no. They weren't. Otherwise Ashley would have leapt at the chance to defend the task force and all their work.

"So, who's the guy?" Ashley asked suddenly.

_"Guy?"_

Ashley gestured to a figure sitting at a bus stop a little ways down the block. "Tall, dark and handsome over there, doing a really bad job of fake texting." Emma's gaze followed Ashleigh's motion, eyes squinting as she made out the form, wishing she'd remembered to put in her contacts that morning.

It was Killian, freezing his ass off in his impractical leather jacket, and even though he had his phone in his hand, it was damn obvious he was looking their way. Emma resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Made by a cop. Even if Ashley was an aspiring detective, it was embarrassing.

"That's... Killian," Emma admitted, reluctantly. "He's kind of my boss."

"And he thinks, what? I'm going to attack you in broad daylight, in my police uniform, in my police car?" Emma just shrugged. It was true that she didn't always come off so well in her dealings with most law enforcement. Her little run-in with Graham was testament to that. But why Killian was keeping an eye out when he could have been back in the car, with the foot heater on, was not something she was prepared to look into. "Well, you can tell him from me his technique needs work. He looks far too cold, and far too pretty to pull off incognito."

Emma couldn't help but smile at the thought of relaying that particular message."I'll tell him."

"You're sure  _that guy_ is going to be any help here?" Ashley asked doubtfully, as she rolled her window down to wave at their voyeur. Emma watched in fascination as Killian realized he'd been made, cursing to himself. But to her surprise, he didn't stalk back to the car in defeat. Instead he just pulled his jacket tighter around himself, and put his phone away, the pretense now pointless.

"He's..." Emma struggled to find the right words. "He's good people."

Ashley turned back from the window, to fix Emma with a thoughtful look. "Coming from you, that's damn near a compliment.  _Just_ your boss?" She rose one suggestive eyebrow. "I mean, I know I have Sean, and he's great and everything, but I could certainly see the appeal..." she trailed off, face forming into a smirk.

"He's a friend," Emma rolled her eyes at the insinuation. "And, more importantly, did I mention,  _my boss?_ " She raised her own eyebrows significantly, until Ashley lost some of her enthusiasm over the idea. Emma didn't think it was a good time to mention the cohabitation. She didn't think Ashley would ever drop it once she learned about his Eggs Benedict. "But he's a decent investigator, and thanks to some sources of his own, he's familiar with the case. All we need is a jumping off point. Any lead that doesn't have an armful of officers already on the case?"

Ashley tapped her chin thoughtfully. "You know, if you're trying to get me to expose weaknesses in the case, you'll have to do better than that."

"Do I really have to say it again?  _I'm not a reporter anymore!"_

"And I'm just going to take your word on that?" Emma couldn't deny, that hurt a little. This was a woman with whom Emma had shared her lecture notes with for two years, after all. She'd gone to her wedding, for chrissakes. She'd given her a set of  _very_ nice spoons off the gift registry. Did they mean nothing?

"Wait here," Emma said stonily, opening her car door, inviting in a gust of biting cold wind. "I'll be right back."

In moments, she was back in front of Ashley Boyd's car window, dragging a reluctant Killian behind her by the sleeve.

She waited for Ashley to roll down her window again. "Ashley, meet Killian Jones, PI. Killian, meet Ashley Boyd, Trooper First Class." She waved a hand in the air between them, before turning to Killian. "Ashley here is not convinced I am here for the reasons I say I am. Would you care to be my character witness?"

And to his credit, without missing a beat he pulled his wallet out of his inner jacket pocket, and pulled out his PI license, issued by none other than the Massachusetts State Police. "According to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, I am am indeed a licensed Private Investigator. And, as you have no doubt gathered, also an associate of Ms. Swan." He looked down to see if Emma was satisfied with his response, and she gave him a thumbs up. He just chuckled, stuffing his wallet back into his jacket.

"We don't want to derail the police investigation," Emma implored through the lowered window. "Just give us something to do. Worst case scenario, we find a missing kid."

Ashley looked from her watch, back to Emma's most pitiful face. Back to her watch. " _Fine_ ," she relented, "I'll have a word with my Captain. If he agrees,  _and only if he agrees_ , we can have you on canvassing or something." She raised a warning finger, before Emma could get in a word edge-wise. " _No promises_."

* * *

The Captain wasn't crazy about bringing in private detectives, but he admitted that there was precedent. When a child goes missing, it's all hands on deck, and it's not like it was a murder investigation yet, where there's a clear chain of custody of evidence to screw up. Besides, the mansion in Chestnut Hill had already been gone over with a fine-toothed comb anyway. So, not opposed to saving on overtime, he agreed. But instead of sending them out to canvass the neighborhood, and otherwise bother the Zimmer's squillionaire neighbors, they got stuck with babysitting duty. Or more accurately, told to keep a close eye on Nicholas Zimmer, and his ever-present nanny.

Which was how they found themselves in an upscale suburban mall, trailing a respectful distance behind an eleven year old boy and his paid minder in the middle of the Apple Store. Emma supposed it could have been worse, as she watched Killian fend off the advances of an overly helpful staff member. It could have been Sephora.

"So how sure are they the nanny didn't do it?" Killian whispered, once he'd disentangled himself and returned to her side, reaching out to take the newest generation tablet from her grasp.

Unlike seemingly the rest of their contemporaries, the Zimmers hadn't hired a 20-something, recent Central American émigré to mind their kids. Oh no. The nanny they hired was more of the old-school variety. Way old school. Dr Estella Lucas was 73, according to her DMV records, with a PhD and a couple of books on child psychology under her belt. Emma had scanned through some of her articles on the car ride over. She knew her shit. She was also the first person the police had considered, and ruled out, as a suspect.

"Pretty sure," Emma replied, coming to lean on the edge of the crisp white display desk. "She has her own guest house on the property. Exterior cameras show her leaving the house at about 11 that night, and nothing again until 6 the next morning. She just didn't have time."

"That doesn't necessarily mean she's innocent. She's familiar with the layout of the place, the camera positions. If she wanted, she could get in. Ava presumably trusts her. Probably one of the few people who could convince her to leave the house without alerting anyone."

"True," Emma acknowledged, leaning over his shoulder to see what he was doing with the iPad. Checking his emails, apparently. "But there's only one way in or out of that guest house, and it's on the video. The windows are painted shut. Investigators checked, and they haven't been opened in years. And then there is means and motive to consider. Neither of which she has. By all accounts, she and the Zimmers are on good terms." Hell, they were trusting her to keep looking after their only other kid, even when the other was in the wind.

"I take it the brother was interviewed?" Killian asked absently, flipping the iPad around to show Emma his latest email, and the picture attached.

_**You owe me.** _

_**That was cashmere, you jerk.** _

The picture was of Smee, mugging for the camera in that insipidly adorable way he had, the scattered remains of what had probably once been a rather pricey throw rug strewn all around him in greenish tufts. Emma's eyes flicked back to Killian, who was struggling to hide his grin.  _A class warrior already, and not even a year old._  He couldn't have been a prouder Dad.

A proud Dad. And Emma's smile fell as she had a sudden brain wave.

"Swan?" She felt the hand brace her shoulder, blue eyes before her swimming with concern.

"Remind me, just how attractive are you to the pensioner set, again?" she asked.

* * *

It wouldn't be easy. And Ashley and her Captain would have a cow. But Emma had to speak to Nicholas Zimmer.

There were a lot of late night TV specials on the mystical links that existed between twins. Physic connections. Even telepathy. Emma didn't believe in any of that crap. But if Ava Zimmer had left her home under her own steam, and she had to admit, the startling lack of evidence of any intruder did seem to point that way, who else better to confide in than the very person with whom you shared a womb?

Nicholas had been interviewed by detectives the day of his sister's disappearance. It had been necessarily brief, with Greg Zimmer present for the whole thing, and it had mostly consisted of crying, and shaking his head at the questions. No, he didn't know where his sister was. No, he hadn't seen or heard anyone during the night. Emma had read the report, and it was clear the officer who'd taken the statement was uncomfortable with all the crying, and had wrapped things up early. Emma wouldn't be so easily swayed. And Emma had a superpower up her sleeve. She just needed to speak to Nicholas Zimmer. And to do that, she needed Estella Lucas at least a little bit distracted.

Enter, The Honey Trap.

Or rather, Killian doing his best impression of a little lost sheep. Or, would he be Bo Beep in this instance?

In any case, she watched as a frantic looking Killian engaged his target, asking the woman if she'd seen his little boy anywhere, pulling at those heartstrings. Ms. Lucas fixed a stern eye on her young charge, ordering him to stay in her line of sight, before she set off with Killian for a nearby security guard, where Killian proceeded to spin his tall tale.

It wasn't exactly on the up-and-up. But it did give Emma a small window of opportunity, and that's all she needed.

"Hey, kid," she said, sidling up to where he was standing by a row of shiny iMacs, each one costing more than Emma's car.

He reacted instantly, flinching away, his eyes darting immediately to his nanny, who was still listening to Killian's increasingly heart-wrenching tale of woe with glistening eyes. Seriously, he was like catnip for the over 60s.

"It's okay," Emma soothed, her voice low, realizing there wasn't much about a strange woman walking up to you in the Apple Store that was particularly okay. "I'm one of the people helping to find your sister."

"You're a cop?" the boy sneered doubtfully. "Where's your badge?"  _Smart kid._

"I'm not a cop. But I  _work_ with the cops. You like the Avengers, kid?"

He snorted, as if to imply,  _of course,_ but didn't take his eyes off his nanny.

"What if I told you I had a superpower?" Emma said, taking a careful step forward.

"What, you can fly?" he asked, humoring her with the kind of sarcasm only capable of a very world-weary 11 year old.

"I can tell when people are lying." She didn't miss the way his spine went rigid for a moment. Nor the momentarily flush to his cheeks. "I've always been able to," Emma continued. "My brother hates it. I can always tell if he's borrowed my car without asking, or if he was the one who broke my favorite mug. He can't keep anything from me."

Nicholas was breathing heavier now, and Emma could see his eyes grow shiner with unshed tears.

"Can your sister keep things from you?"

she asked softly. "Or do you know why she ran away?"

The boy wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand, turning his face away from her so she couldn't see the tears track down his cheeks. "She didn't run away," his voice was small, younger than it had been a minute before. And yet, defiant. "She's coming back."

"Coming back after what?" Emma prompted. And that's when Nicholas realized that he'd given too much away, his face filling with dread.

"You're not in trouble," Emma soothed quickly, casting a nervous glance back to the nanny, who seemed to be winding things up over by the security guard. "No one is going to yell at you. Coming back after what?"

"When she finds him." Emma felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. She suspected, but...

"Finds who, Nicholas?"

But he didn't speak then, screwing his eyes shut, shaking his head from side to side. Any second now, and he'd start causing a scene. So Emma took a punt. It was not the most professional move she'd even made. She had the potential to scar a young kid for life. But... desperate times and all that.

"Your Dad, you mean? Your real one?"

To her relief, the boy stilled almost instantly, eyes widening almost comically.

"You _know_  about him?" he asked, drying his eyes with his sleeves.

"I met him. He's nice." Emma forced a smile. "He doesn't know about  _you_  yet. How do you know about him?" she asked, gentle as could be.

The bottom lip was trembling, but to her relief, he didn't clam up again. "We did..." A rogue sniffle. "We did blood typing at school. In science. And I'm AB, but my Dad is O. Which means he's not really my Dad." Emma offered a wan smile. This kid really shouldn't be dealing with this shit at his age. Or any age, really.

Behind the boy's shoulder, she saw his minder heading back in their direction, Killian shooting anxious glances her way from his place by the security guard. It was now or never.

Placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, she asked the million dollar question. "Do you know where Ava went, Nicholas?"

* * *

Ava Zimmer was discovered that night by the Newton PD, less than a mile away from her home, in the long abandoned Scout Hall the neighborhood kids liked to use as the occasional club house. She was a little undernourished, and cold, spending those nights out on her own with just an old coat to keep warm, but the doctors who admitted her overnight for observation agreed she would be just fine.

Her investigation into her father's identity had hit a snag on her first day out, seeing as she didn't have much to go on. An old picture she'd found hidden in her mother's things, taken at nearby Boston College. But when the registrar couldn't, or wouldn't identify the man, she was at a dead end. So, ultimately, being the headstrong kid that she was, she decided she would stay away as long as possible, hoping that a little desperation might smoke the truth out of her mother. Emma had to hand it to her. The kid had pluck. Maybe  _too much_  pluck.

It wasn't necessarily going to be a happily ever after for the Zimmer clan. There was still that whole "Who's Your Daddy?" angle still to be resolved. And who knew how Greg Zimmer would handle that one? But a missing kid was back in her bed, and all things considered, it was a win.

"It's feels good, doesn't it, love?" Killian interrupted Emma's musings, handing her a beer from the refrigerator. It had been a long day. The longest. And the cool liquid felt amazing sliding down her throat.

"Huh?" Emma asked, remembering suddenly he'd asked her a question.

"Being one of the good guys," he explained, tapping her bottle briefly with his. "It feels good, doesn't it?" She took in his unguarded smile. His genuine pride at what she'd... they'd done. And Emma felt something inside her crack, and she did something she never did, catching him off guard by wrapping her free arm under his armpit and pulling him into a hug. And after a few seconds of shock, he relaxed into it, and hugged her back.

"Yeah," she answered, face buried in the crook of his neck, giving herself a moment to enjoy it. The spice of his cologne. The warmth of his arms around her. In that moment she felt safe. Appreciated. Not entirely alone in the world. And she wasn't trading that feeling for anything. "It kinda does."


	11. The Green-Eyed Harpy

**A/N: This chapter took its name from a line from one of my all-time favourite songs, One Crowded Hour by Augie March.**

Emma had a plan for her Tuesday night. A night in on the couch with Smee, dressed in her fuzziest pajamas. Killian. A couple of beers. A frozen pizza. An encore viewing of Anatomy of a Murder. It was the perfect plan. Right up until Killian emerged after a veritable age locked in the bathroom, a cloud of aftershave trailing in his wake.

"Oh my god, did you iron that?" she asked, sitting up a little straighter to take in the full effect. He'd made  _an effort._ Skinny jeans. A leather vest fitting snugly over a suspiciously starched black button down, which was quick to disappear from view as he shrugged on his usual leather jacket. In short, he managed to look both dark and dangerous, a leather fetishist's wet dream.

"Aye," he said, checking his hair for just that right amount of artful dishevelment in the hall mirror. "I'm meeting Tink for drinks at some uber-pretentious cocktail bar on Newbury Street. Thought I should look the part."

"Oh," Emma said, watching her evening plans evaporate before her eyes. And then she saw Killian frown down at his shirt. The shirt he was wearing to meet Tink. For drinks. " _Oh._  Do you want me to make myself scarce? Because I can camp out in my apartment for a few hours with a flashlight and a book. Unless you need...  _more than a few hours_?" She dropped her gaze then, cursing herself internally, willing herself to shut up, reaching out to scratch between Smee's ears. He merely sneezed in response.

"Lass," Killian began, but Emma didn't stop.

"Actually it's fucking cold out there. I could just head to Granny's. It has heat,  _and_ it's Taco Tuesday." She looked down at her flannel pyjamas, which seemed so perfect a moment ago, with distaste. "I should change."

"Swan."

"You've already walked Smee, right? I mean, he'll be fine here alone for bit?"

" _Swan!_ " he repeated, louder this time, and Emma bit her lip to prevent the next torrent of words, casting a glance his way. His face softened when their eyes met, shaking his head from side to side. "Swan, I'm not kicking you out of the apartment when it's single figures out. Tink and I are-" He scratched absently at his chin scruff, searching for the right words. "It's _just_  drinks," he finished firmly. "You're more than welcome to join us. She's has been hinting she would like to see you again. I believe she follows you on Twitter."

Emma snorted at that. Her latest had been live-tweeting Killian's reactions to Tottenham's latest draw. She'd always thought he was naturally dramatic, but lordy, she'd had  _no_  idea.

"Is that a no to a $30 cosmopolitan?"

Emma rolled her eyes, one hand gesturing at her unwashed hair, pulled back in a messy bun, and oh-so-tasteful flannel ensemble. "I don't think I'm exactly Newbury Street material, do you?"

"Oh, I don't know," he drawled, crossing his arms over his chest as his eyes swept over her in appraisal. "There's a certain  _je ne sais quoi_ ," he said with a quirk to his lips.

Emma threw a pillow at his head, which he artfully ducked just in time.

"I see how it is, love. I think I shall just take my leave," he said, retreating from the room with a bow. "Enjoy your evening with Jimmy Stewart!"

"Enjoy your not-date!" she called back, just before the apartment door swung shut behind him.

* * *

"Is it my imagination, or does this couch  _still_ smell of cat?" Emma was roused from her dozing by the shift of the couch, as Killian took a seat on the arm, his boots coming to rest on the cushion by her feet.

"I like this couch," Emma mumbled sleepily, pulling her blanket tighter around her, as she tried to blink herself awake. She must have nodded off somewhere near the end. The DVD menu screen was still on a loop, the jazz score blasting through the apartment apparently no obstacle to sleep. Nor for Smee, who was snoring on the rug by the TV, nearer the radiator.

"Oh, sorry, love. Did I wake you? I wouldn't have thought it was possible to sleep through this racket."

"Did you really just call Duke Ellington's sweet, sweet jazz "a racket"?" Emma asked in horror, though the potency of her expression was muted somewhat by the huge yawn she finished on.

"A thousand apologies, Swan," he said, with a somber hand on his chest. "I knew not of what I spoke."

"Yeah, that's more like it," Emma smiled into her pillow. "What time is it?"

"Near midnight," he said, letting loose an impressive yawn of his own. "Walked Tink home, and got a cab back. Took a while. I think they're all holed up at Granny's enjoying Taco Tuesday instead of braving the icy conditions."

"How were  _drinks_?" Emma asked, raising her head a little to waggle her eyebrows in a poor imitation of Killian himself.

"Watered down and overpriced, just as expected," he grinned, lifting up her feet so that he could slip down to sit on the actual couch cushions, and then letting them fall back into his lap.

"You know that's not what I meant," Emma chided.

"I told you, it wasn't a date, Swan."

"No?" Emma raised an eyebrow. "Because you totally ironed your shirt for her. And then you walked her home..." She nudged his hand with her foot, knowing she was being annoying, but not quite caring enough not to be.

"No," he said, trapping her sock-clad foot in his hands before she could nudge him again. But when he glanced up to find Emma still looking at him expectantly, he sighed in resignation. "Tink and I were good, for a while. She's a lovely lass. Bit frightening, at times, when she gets a bee in her bonnet, but that makes her a hell of a lawyer," he chuckled. "But we ultimately wanted different things, so the relationship ran its course. I'm not selfish enough to jeopardize what we have just because I'm lonely."

"Huh," Emma replied stupidly.

She couldn't say she'd ever had such a mature approach to a break up before. Not with Graham. Or Walsh. Or even Neal, back when stealing from convenience stores seemed like a good time. That one August had brought an end to. And though she'd hated him at time, in hindsight, he'd probably saved her a mountain of heartache. But with the others? Whenever things got too hard, she had a tendency to ignore them until they got the message and stopped calling. It wasn't exactly the adult solution, but it did seem to work. Until you ran into them outside the men's room of a cop bar, that is.

"Hey," Killian called, pulling her out of her thoughts with a gentle squeeze of her foot. "You still with me?"

"Yeah, sorry," she said, rubbing at her eyes with the heel of her hands, and sitting up a little more. "Still half-asleep, is all."

"I shouldn't have woken you."

"I shouldn't fall asleep on this thing anyway. I can't afford the chiropractor's bills." A soft chuckle from Killian. "So how was Tink? For reals, this time. No teasing, I swear," Emma held out her hands, palms facing him.

"She's good," he said, fingers tracing absently over Emma's foot. "She's currently drawing up visitation documentation for Michael Tillman to come and meet the twins."

"Really?" Emma couldn't quite hide her surprise. Or her delight.

"Really. Apparently Greg Zimmer is the forgiving sort." She suppressed a snort. He'd have to be, if he was willing to let go of  _that_  little transgression. "Speaking of, ready for your meeting with Zelena Beck tomorrow?" he asked with a knowing grin, and Emma groaned, thrown back to reality.

Zelena Beck was their newest client. And to put it mildly, she was a piece of work. And  _not_ the forgiving sort.

"I will  _literally_ pay you to talk to her instead," Emma pleaded.

But instead of answering immediately, Killian brought his thumb down to the underside of her foot, rubbing his thumb into the arch of her foot, and Emma barely managed to contain her moan.

" _Fucking hell_ ," she said, but didn't dare move her foot away, in case he stopped. "Is this your way of buttering me up enough to actually attend that meeting?"

"That depends," he replied with something a lot like a leer. "Is it working?"

He let his thumb dig into her flesh again, and Emma bit her lip. "Give it five more minutes. Then we'll talk."

His answering grin was wicked, but he didn't pause in his ministrations, and Emma did a very commendable job of keeping it cool. Kind of.

"You know, I can't think of the last time I got a foot rub," Emma remarked absently, lulled into complacency by rather talented hands.

"Christ, Swan. Who have you been spending your time with?" he asked, affronted on her behalf. Emma shrugged. Not the right sort of people, apparently. "Well, not to worry. There's only one rule. Pick a partner who knows what he's doing."

"And that would be you?" she asked, coy as you please.

"Aye, Swan," he smiled, mostly to himself. "That'd be me."

_Well, he wasn't lying._

"If I gave  _you_ a foot rub, would you take the meeting?" Emma hedged.

"Nice try, Swan," he said with a click of his tongue. "But I'm not so easily bought. I'm the boss. And one of the perks of being the boss, is getting to dump my least favorite clients on my underlings. It might be the  _only_  perk of being the boss, come to think of it."

"But she's the worst!" Emma whined.

"Aye. And she's  _all_  yours. I've had my fill of vindictive gingers," he said with a shudder.

"Ten minutes," Emma renegotiated. "Per foot."

"You know I  _do_  pay you, right, love?"

"Oh, c'mon! The woman is a bona fide psychopath! She set her sister's house on fire!"

" _Allegedly!_ She  _allegedly_  set her sister's house on fire!" Killian was quick to correct her.

She just shot him a look, their gazes holding for a long moment.

"Eight minutes," he said at last.

"Nine," Emma shot back.

He made a show of mulling this over, head rolling back on his shoulders like it pained him to cave to her demands. "Fine. We have an accord. Nine minutes. And not a second longer." A pause. "How long have I been doing this now, again?"

* * *

Zelena Beck really was the worst.

Killian had a sliding scale for how much he charged for jobs, depending on how deplorable the client, and Zelena certainly met all the criteria for his highest rates yet. She was catty. She was quick to anger. Her motives were not exactly honorable. Then there was the alleged burning down of the sister's house to consider.

But with the office facing a rent increase in the new year, they really couldn't afford to turn her down, not when she sat down and wrote them a check upfront.

She didn't  _seem_ like a terrible person at first glance. True, she'd arrived off the street, without an appointment, but that wasn't unheard of. Her tone had been sweet, almost motherly, as she told her tale of woe, shrinking into her knitted cardigan. Emma had almost been caught up in her story. Almost.

Zelena had been put up for adoption as a baby. It had been an opener that had Killian's eyes flicking to hers, making sure she was up to it. She was. There the similarities ended. As an adult, Zelena, after an exhaustive search through decades old birth records, had found out the identity of her birth mother. And much to her surprise, it was none other than Cora Mills. Yes, _that_ Cora Mills. As in, the woman who had married into the Prince & Farthing pharmaceuticals empire, revolutionized the industry, and proceeded to become one of the richest women in America, under the new banner of Mills Pharmaceuticals.

"Are you sure you don't want a lawyer?" Killian had asked.

But Emma knew better than that. Zelena wasn't hoping for a mediation with her birth mother. If it was Cora's money she was after, and  _of course_ it was her money she was after, she wasn't going to get it with a lawyer. When a child is put up for a closed adoption, every legal connection to the birth parent is severed. The only way Zelena was ever going to see a dime of that Big Pharma cash? If she got in good with the family, and got herself added to the will.

"You want us to grease the wheels," Emma translated. "With the family. Find you an in."

Zelena's eyes practically crackled with electricity then, as she put Emma in her sights. "Well, aren't you the clever one?"

It made her skin crawl.

But they were desperate. And they figured Cora Mills had inheritance money to burn. So they found their in. Regina Mills. Previously thought to be Cora's only child, and heiress to the Mills Pharmaceuticals fortune. Zelena's half-sister.

Regina was a public servant of some repute, known for her take-no-prisoners attitude. Not exactly the fluffiest kitten in the box, but rumor had it she'd mellowed out a little since she'd remarried. Their initial investigations confirmed she spent more time away from the office these days, and more time at her second home out on the Cape with her sons and new husband. There were even scattered reports of smiling in public, though those were unconfirmed.

The fact remained, she was their best chance. They'd never get to Cora through her phalanx of lawyers and minders. But this new-and-improved family-minded Regina? It was at least a possibility.

Then Regina's house had burned to the ground. She had been out of the state at the time, and she and her family weren't harmed in the blaze, but it was definitely fishy. Killian had passed along Zelena's information on the sly to David, who worked in Arson, but he hadn't been able to make anything stick. But they had their suspicions. There was something  _not quite right_  about Zelena Beck.

So between the two of them, they'd decided a face-to-face between the two sisters would be the easiest way out of the Zelena hole they'd dug for themselves. They'd done a thorough enough job learning all there was to know about Regina Mills that Zelena could probably ingratiate herself well enough, if she put a lid on the crazy. And once the introductions had been made, they'd be able to wash their hands of the whole thing. Either Regina would accept her, and get her own investigators onto her, or she'd reject her. Either way, they were free and clear.

It was just the method of the introduction that they had yet to iron out.

Emma was a fan of the rip-off-the-Band-Aid approach. A respectful letter delivered through Regina's attorney. A proper sit-down. At least the chance to come off as someone who truly desired to build a relationship with the woman. The truth, for better or worse, out in the open. Zelena, on the other hand, was more a fan of the cloak-and-dagger approach. As in, she wanted to place herself somewhere close to the family, and hope she made a favorable impression.

Something Killian had shot down immediately, thinking of the safety of Regina's two little boys, and Zelena's alleged predilection for playing with fire.

It was Emma's job to deliver this news, whilst Killian was out doing literally anything else. But when it came to staring down Zelena's cold gaze, she wondered if eighteen minutes worth of foot rubs was really payment enough.

"She won't go for it," Emma reiterated. "Regina's too clever. She'll never believe for a second that it was coincidence that led you into her orbit. Not when she finds out who you really are. She admires people who are direct. Like her. She'll see it as a sign of strength," she advised, leaning back in Killian's chair.

"Direct," Zelena repeated, unimpressed.

" _Look_ ," Emma said, running a hand through her hair, "you're paying for my expertise, and all of our research has indicated this is the best way to go."

"No," she corrected, "I'm paying for the expertise of your leather-clad lover, but he has seen fit to palm me off on his secretary," Zelena replied, in a deceptively sweet tone.

Emma could feel the anger building inside her, itching to lash out, but she swallowed it back down, painting on a faux smile that had gotten her out of more scrapes than she could count. "I assure you, these are Killian's recommendations, as well as my own. You can either take our advice, or you can find someone else to do your busy-work for you. Either way, we're done here."

" _We're done here_?" she repeated. "Oh, darling, you don't get to make that call."

"You wanna bet?" Emma stood up from her chair, crossing her arms over her chest.

* * *

She should have known it would end in violence. Hair pulling. Scratching. The mean left hook which had Emma flat on her back, head swimming, as Zelena beat a path for the exit. Turned out Zelena was scrappy.

To say Killian wasn't thrilled was putting it mildly.

"At least she paid upfront, right?" she said, as he helped her out to the car.

She barely managed to keep him from taking her to the ER, avoiding a four hour wait on uncomfortable plastic chairs just to be told what Emma already knew. Ice it. Get someone to wake her up every two hours, in case she had a concussion.

"It's just a black eye!" Emma repeated, for the millionth time, as she sat back on that same couch of his, Killian hovering with a fresh bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dish towel.

"Humor me," he replied gravely, holding it out, as he took a seat beside her.

She had to admit, the cool relief of it on her bruised skin did feel better. Maybe she would have admitted it, if she thought it would help lighten the mood any. But  _that_ wasn't happening anytime soon. Killian was a veritable little storm cloud of self-loathing, and nothing Emma said made it any better. But she still had to give it a shot.

"You can stop anytime with the self-flagellation, you know? It's okay. _I'm fine_." She waved a hand, to indicate that she would, in fact, live.

" _Jesus Christ, Swan_!" he exploded, rising to his feet. "Whatever else this is, it's  _not fine_! I left you alone with a woman that I  _knew_ was unstable because I couldn't be bothered dealing with her!"

"If you're worried about what August's going to say..." But he didn't let her finish.

"I don't give a fuck about August right now, Emma!" He was pacing now. "I give a fuck about you! And how I deliberately put you in harm's way, and yet, because everyone in your life has always treated you like shit, you don't realize precisely how much I fucked up.  _Just another black eye. Oh well_. Don't you see? That isn't how it's supposed to be!"

"And why is that? Because I'm a woman?" Emma was standing now too, the frozen peas forgotten on the couch cushion. "Killian, I can take a punch. I'm not made of glass, and I'm not gonna break. I antagonized someone that  _I_ knew to be unstable, and maybe that didn't mean I deserved a punch in the face, but _I_  took that chance. It's not the end of the world."

"God!" he said, his hands running through his hair. "Don't you understand how important you are? You're the most infuriating, the most-"

But whatever else she was, she would never know, because in that instant, Emma did the only thing she could think of to shut him up. She took that last step towards him, wrapped her hand around his neck and pulled his lips down to meet hers.


	12. Thin Places

To say Killian hadn't been expecting her to just lay one on him, well, the way he froze up like carbonite beneath her fingers could have given _that_  away. But the way he broke free from his momentary stupefaction with a frustrated groan against her lips, or the way his hand slid around her waist, pulling her against him? Well... that may have said something else. And the way he kissed her back?

Not really part of the plan. Though to call it a plan might have been a tad generous. A whim. An _impulse._  Whatever it was that had led Emma Swan to be sucking face with Killian Jones in his living room, holding onto the lapels of his jacket for dear life as they scooted backwards, Emma falling back onto the couch cushions, taking him down with her.

Killian Jones was a pretty orderly guy. Emma had seen the inside of his refrigerator, and  _someone_ had gotten a little too cozy with his label maker. This Killian didn't kiss like an orderly guy. This Killian kissed like a man driven to the brink of sanity, his frustration fast giving way to lust. Oh yeah, there was  _plenty_  of that, if that bruising claim on her mouth was any indication. Men. Such hot-blooded creatures.

At least she'd gotten him to shut up.

Not that Emma could claim to be entirely unaffected, what with the stupidly hot Brit settled half on top of her, or the dizzying cocktail of dumb hormones clouding her brain, or that painful ache in her chest flaring into an all-out inferno.

He was scary good at this.

So maybe she forgot herself. Just for a bit. Until Killian's fingers began tracing the curve of her neck, and she felt the sting of contact against open wound, and found herself pulling away with a wince.

Her flinch might as well have been a bucket of cold water on the whole sorry scenario. Killian's weight shifted off of her in seconds, as he retreated as far as the couch would allow, the apology forming on his lips before he'd even gotten his breath back.

Emma didn't want to hear it, raising a hand in warning. Thankfully, he got the message, and his apology died a premature death, as Emma pushed her hair away from her neck to feel around for the injury she now knew to be there. She winced again, when she zeroed in on the place. A series of small cuts, and when she pulled her hand away, her fingers were stained with crimson flakes.

"Christ, Swan," Killian murmured at the sight of the dried blood, daring to inch closer, dying to inspect to the damage. "Did she scratch you?"

Her fingers retracing the wound, she thought she could count three distinct gauges. Zelena Beck must have had a hell of a manicurist, because they weren't the shallowest of scratches. "Kitty's got claws," she muttered, cupping her hand over the wound. "You wouldn't have some Neosporin, or something would you? I'd rather not catch rabies, if it's all the same."

To his credit, he was up on his feet in moments. "Don't go anywhere," he said, leveling her with a look, before he disappeared down the hall, Smee on his heels. Like she might just make a mad dash down the fire escape in his absence, sans coat or shoes in the middle of December. And why would she do that? It isn't like she'd just made out with her boss or anything.  _Oh._ So maybe the fire escape plan wasn't  _completely_ out of the question. Smoothing her hair down a little from where it had suffered the ravages of Killian's fingers, she leaned her head back against the back of the couch and sighed.

_Fuck._

Killian returned in good time, carrying what looked like an entire ambulance's worth of medical supplies. He ignored her raised brow, bending down to pick up the bag of frozen peas from where it had had been melting into the rug, and handed it back to her with a look which did not accept argument. So Emma was a good little patient, back to holding the frozen peas back over her eye, and Killian set about with the healing.

"This'll sting, love," he warned, as he uncapped the ointment, squeezing some out onto his finger. "And it's cold."

Emma rolled her eyes, as he knelt on the cushion beside her, pushed some stray hairs aside from her neck, and leaned over to massage the ointment into the wounds. He was right. It  _was_  cold. And it  _did_  sting. But it wasn't that which had Emma's stomach doing flip flops at the brush of his thumb at the nape of her neck, or had the goosebumps trailing right down her arm. She felt it. Radiating under her skin. Pulling at her gut. Nor was it his attention to his task that had his pupils blown wide, his hot breath fanning against her temple as his hand lingered against her neck long after the ointment had been absorbed, his thumb still making dizzying circles into her skin.

"It's probably a bad idea," he said, voice raspier than normal, his weight shifting slightly beside her.

"Definitely a bad idea," she agreed quietly, swiveling her head around to face him directly.

He sure was an attractive bastard. Kind of hard not to notice, really, what with the scruff, and the chiseled jawline, and those blue, blue eyes. But it was the look in those baby blues that really sold it. There was lust there, sure. But not just lust. Caring. The kind Emma would have thought she was imagining, if it hadn't been for two months of nothing but. And just a hint of hesitation, fraying away at the edges.

"You're in no condition to-" But Emma, throwing her bag of peas back on the coffee table, leaned forward, cutting off his excuses with a kiss.

It was only short, but when she pulled away from him, she could feel she'd taken something away with her. His reticence maybe, as his lips unconsciously chased hers, eyes still half closed in a dazed kind of way.

"So be gentle," she advised, giving him a playful push back, her other hand reaching for the zipper on her sweater. "And don't think too much, Jones."

* * *

When Emma awoke, it wasn't to Smee's familiar yips, or his warm tongue against her cheek. Just a dull ache behind her eyes, a persistent nudging at her shoulder, and soft spoken words.

"Swan?" She moaned against her pillow, swatting at the noise in the hopes it would go away. "Lass, I'm sorry but I need you to wake up."

She'd recognize that accent anywhere.  _Killian._

"S'early," she slurred, cracking one eye open momentarily to confirm that, yes, it was in fact still dark out, and she had no business being awake.

"I need you to open your eyes, love."

And with great effort she did, though the vision in her right eye was blurry, she made out the outline of Killian's face illuminated by the orange glow of the bedside lamp, eyes swimming with concern. And with that look, came the rest of it, flooding back. Her throw-down with Zelena. The kiss. The first aid. The-.

"Fuck," she said, sitting up with a start.

The fact she wasn't in her own bedroom.

"And... there it is," she heard him murmur beside her. He wasn't in the bed with her, the one with the navy blue sheets doing a less than stellar job of protecting her modesty, but perched on the edge atop the covers, clad in a pair of sweatpants.

"What's the time?" Emma asked, drawing the sheet tighter around herself, eyes scanning her dimly lit surrounds for her phone, or a clock radio, or something she could use to ground herself a little. She couldn't quite bring herself to look him directly in the eye.

"It's near 3. Sorry, I just... I needed to make sure you're not actually concussed."  _Oh_. Right. Her possible concussion. A mean left hook was good grounds for temporary insanity, right? No. Emma didn't think so either. She reached a hand up to trace the hollow of her eye. It was tender to the touch, and the swelling beneath her fingertips was obvious. She probably looked like hell, if the pained expression she caught on Killian's face was any indication.

"Something for the pain?" he asked, holding up a white plastic bottle, rattling the pills inside.

"What is that?" Emma asked, not recognizing the label, good eye squinting in the gloom.

"Not quite sure, actually," he admitted, with a sheepish look. "Something August left. But I took a couple when I broke my ankle last year, and I have to say, they proved to be  _rather_  effective." He gave the bottle another small shake, for emphasis.

"Good enough for me," Emma shrugged, holding her hand out. He shook two pills into her open palm, and held out a glass of water.

After first securing the sheet a little tighter around herself, she took it from him, downing the pills one at a time.

"Thanks," she said, handing him back the empty glass, letting awkward silence permeate the space between them.

"How's your neck?" he asked suddenly, but making no move to check for himself.

Emma shrugged, fingers coming up to trace the spot under her hair, the wounds already starting to scab over. "I think I'll live." She resisted the urge to feel for her pulse point, knowing she would feel the tender spot there. The one Zelena didn't cause. "Can I borrow a shirt or something? I'm feeling a little... underdressed here."

"Aye, of course," he said, jumping to his feet with a scary kind of efficiency, and pulling open one of the drawers on his dresser. "Remind me, Swan. How ideologically opposed are you to the Yankees, again?" Emma settled for shooting him a severe look, but it didn't quite eliminate his smirk. It was the first one she'd seen since she'd been roused awake. And she couldn't deny, seeing it helped ease the snakes squirming in her stomach. Undeterred, he shut the offending drawer, pulling open the next one down.

"How about this one?" he asked, holding up his old UMass sweater, with a raised eyebrow. "Does it meet your exacting standards?

His college sweater. The one she'd seen him wear to breakfast near a hundred times now, and perhaps his most loved article of clothing. Didn't the man have a cache of ill-fitting promotional T-shirts in his closet like everyone else? Did it have to be something which... meant something? She gave a reluctant nod, holding a hand out to catch it as he tossed it her way.

"I'll just give you some privacy," he said, making his way to the door.

"So now you're going to be a gentleman?" Emma wondered aloud, hoping to god he could tell she was teasing.

He whirled around then, a crooked smile on his face. "I'm always a gentleman, Swan," he said, eyes glowing with recollection. "Or did you forget?" And then, before she could process that remark, he slipped out into the hall, shutting the door firmly behind him.

* * *

Emma didn't think it was just privacy he was giving her, because he was gone for a good forty minutes, only coming back in when Emma could already feel the cool tendrils of August's pain pills pulling at her consciousness.

"Hey," she said, a little sleepily, watching him as he made his entrance, shutting the door noiselessly behind him.

"Hey," he replied softly, approaching the bed with careful steps.

"I didn't mean to steal your bed," she said. "But I think those pain pills are kicking in. I feel all kinds of woozy."

His answering smile made the lines around his eyes crinkle in that way she liked. "Aye. I can tell."

"Where did you go?" she asked with a yawn.

He took his same perch on the edge of the bed, letting his toes curl into the carpet. "Sent an email to Regina Mills's lawyer. Thought they deserved a heads up on the Zelena situation, in case the Arson Squad hadn't already been in touch. I didn't want her causing any more damage than she already has."

There was a definite edge to his voice, and Emma reached her hand across the covers to pat his own in consolation. But she didn't move it away. And when Killian lifted his hand to link his fingers with hers, she didn't pull away.

"We're going to have to talk about this, aren't we?" Emma asked, laying back into her pillow with a resigned sigh.

"It can wait until tomorrow," he said with a wry smile, thumb tracing absently along her own. "I don't think it's a 4am-and-doped-up-on-pain-meds kind of conversation."

"Would make it easier, though," Emma pointed out, to hear Killian's warm chuckle.

"Aye. Perhaps."

"I give a fuck about you too, you know?" she said drowsily, eyelids losing their battle to stay open.

"Well, that's cute, Swan." His tone was doting, verging on condescending. Like she was a child, and he was humoring her. " But I'm pretty sure that's the painkillers talking."

"You don't know that," she murmured, her indignation mostly muffled by her pillow.

"Well, then I very much look forward to being corrected," he said gently, his lips soft and warm where they brushed across her temple. "Sleep now, Swan. I'll be right here."

And she did.


	13. Bad Penny

Believe it or not, there are worse things than waking up to realize you've slept with your roommate, who is also your boss, managing to fuck up both your home life and working life in one fell swoop. Like, for instance, being caught escaping out of said boss's apartment by way of the fire escape in the middle of a nor'easter, wearing nothing but an oversized UMass college sweater, by the little old lady who lived in the apartment below his.

It wasn't exactly going to break the top fifty of Emma Swan's All Time Best Ideas. And the poor old dear certainly seemed to get a shock, as she unknowingly went to water the begonias on her windowsill, and instead ended up tipping her watering can out onto the floor as she watched in growing horror as Emma made her downwards escape. Not that Emma had time to do much but shoot the woman an apologetic little wave. Emma couldn't wait around to explain. It was single figures out, frostbite was a real possibility, and Emma  _really_ didn't want to still be around when she called the cops.

Swiping her keys and creeping down the fire escape may not have been her smoothest move. But if it meant she didn't have to come face to face with Killian and his delicious cooked breakfasts and over-earnest expressions, then she would risk it. She knew she couldn't run very far, or for very long. After all, for better or for worse, she'd hitched her wagon to Killian's these past few months, and without him she didn't have a job, or running hot water. That and the fact she'd left her wallet behind on his coffee table, next to her phone.

She couldn't run forever.

She just needed a breath.

Thankfully, she kept a change of clothes in her car. It was a lifelong habit she'd never quite been able to break, and she had never been more glad of it than when she was pulling on those spare woolen socks over her frozen toes, which were practically numb from cold and had taken on a nice blue-ish tinge. Shivering violently, she emptied out the rest of the clothes from the duffel bag, and changed quickly, ducked down low in her seat, vainly hoping her off-street parking spot would afford some measure of privacy.

It was not her classiest walk of shame.

Truth be told, bolting hadn't been the first thing on Emma's mind upon waking. Her first thoughts had been, "Wow, this is a really comfortable bed," and "That smells like bacon," and "Ow, my eye." She had been all prepared to avoid Killian's gaze, sit down over awkward, morning-after-the-night-before bacon and eggs, and mutually agree that the best thing for the both of them, moving forward, would be to pretend it had all never happened. Emma was a mess. Jones Investigations was a mess. Killian was a less obvious, but still not-quite-over-the-ex mess.

And Emma had been all set to do the mature thing, taking some very calming yoga-like breaths, and stealthily disappearing back to her room with what clothes she could find bundled in her arms. She figured if she was going to have to face the music, she deserved some mirror time, and cracked open her closet, to peer at her reflection in the mirror which hung on the back of the door.

It was not a pretty sight. Zelena had certainly gotten her licks in. Her left eye had swollen up good and purple, making her look suspiciously like Rocky Balboa after a title fight. She'd been a little too preoccupied seducing Killian into his bed to really practice good after-care, and it showed, the skin stretched tight, her eye near swollen shut. The wound on her neck at least seemed to be healing, though the mark left by Killian would have necessitated a turtleneck kind of day, if Zelena's claw marks hadn't already. If that wasn't enough, her blonde hair was a vicious tangle, and yesterday's mascara had smeared, and she looked like nothing short of a train wreck. Like a celebrity mugshot, or a battered wife in an after-school special.

She needed a shower, a hairbrush, and maybe a long, hard look at her life choices.

Idly, she began searching through the meager selection of sweaters she had brought with her, when one slipped off the hanger, falling to the floor of the closet. But bending down to pick it up, she discovered something she'd never seen before. The closet, being in the spare room, had always contained rather a lot of superfluous crap. Empty suitcases. Out of season clothes. Stupid shit bought off infomercials in late night fits of delirium, that had never left the box. All the usual suspects. But it was the box leaning against the back wall of the closet which got Emma's attention, and routed her to the spot.

It was a bassinet.

A non-hypothetical bassinet for Killian's once hypothetical future child. Which maybe hadn't been quite so hypothetical as Emma might have imagined. A bassinet isn't exactly something you keep around, just in case. It's something you buy when the need arises.

_When the need arises._

And suddenly, Emma felt the bile rise in her throat, reaching a hand out to steady herself on the door frame, as she saw her bedroom in a new light. The pale blue walls, painted over since the August days, when they'd been plain cream, obscured by postcards and art prints tacked everywhere. The bassinet in the closet. Milah's hasty departure from Killian's life. Killian being so distracted he didn't even realize Ariel was deliberately tanking his business.

She suddenly felt like an intruder in this space. A poor substitute for the room's intended occupant. And like the world's shittiest friend. Her, a former investigative journalist who prided herself on finding the nuance in any story. She hadn't seen the signs. And what had she done? She'd slept with him, even though she knew he wasn't okay, knew he wasn't over Milah, knew that he was lonely. All because she thought it would make  _her_ feel better? She wanted to throw up.

So she did what she'd always done so well. She'd made a run for it.

Deprived of the loose change which could buy her a seat at a coffee shop for a few hours, and with the constant stream of snowfall depriving her of any better options, she drove home, careful not to slip too much on her balding tires. She hadn't been back to the apartment in weeks. She hadn't really wanted to. It felt like a defeat almost, to see all the evidence of her former life laid out before her, reminding her of just how badly she'd fucked everything up. But it had one thing going for it. It wasn't where Killian was.

She wasn't surprised to find her downstairs neighbor's SUV parked in her spot, having taken advantage of her temporary absence to make themselves right at home. She did an overdue check of her mail box, to find it stuffed full of junk mail and catalogs, Past Due notices, and, yes,  _of course,_ a weighty envelope with her address written in an elegant script with a fountain pen, which no doubt threatened the imminent demise of her mythical dog.

Her arms laden with envelopes, she made her way up the stairs to the third floor, taking in the tiny details she usually missed after seeing them every day. The super still hadn't fixed the EXIT light on the second floor landing, still as dead as it had been on the day Emma and August had moved in over two years ago. There was the shaky dinosaur, the makings of a stegosaurus by the looks of it, drawn in orange crayon on the otherwise plain white walls, it's spiky tail incomplete, as if the child artist had been dragged off before they could finish their work. There was a new mark in the carpet in the hallway on her floor, which looked suspiciously like a scorch mark, as if someone had been summoning demons mid-corridor. Emma let her eyes trail accusingly down to the last door on the right, which belonged to a pair of college kids, who had an unfortunate history of fire-related mishaps. And then her eyes swept back, catching on the front door of her own apartment. 3F. It was ajar.

" _No, no, no, no_ ," she repeated like a mantra, dropping her mail in a heap on the carpet. She fumbled for the switchblade tucked into her boot, only to realize she wasn't wearing her usual pair, still probably lying abandoned on Killian's living room rug in that way he always grumbled about. No weapon. No phone. Possible intruder.  _Great._

Emma scanned the corridor for a possible weapon, her eyes landing on the fire extinguisher by the stairwell. The clips holding it to the wall gave way easily, and she brandished it in front of her, nozzle raised. It was suspiciously light, as if it's contents had already been expended putting out the hallway fire. That didn't matter. It certainly looked imposing enough. And if worse came to worst, it would probably hurt a lot if she hit someone over the head with it, empty or not.

Creeping forward, Emma paused by the doorway, listening. At first there was nothing, then the tell-tale groan of floorboards shifting under heavy boots. There was someone in there. Bracing herself, Emma counted silently to three. Then five. Then ten. On eleven she finally gathered the necessary courage and made her move, kicking the door in, and hoping against hope that her intruder was not the shoot first, ask questions later type.

Her intruder clearly hadn't been expecting company, because he, it was definitely a he, a bearded guy clad in a woolly flannel jacket, gave a yelp from where he stood before the refrigerator, moving so quickly to see who had entered that one ankle collapsed beneath him, dragging the rest of him down onto the linoleum. Emma wasted no time in moving to stand over him, fire extinguisher raised above her head to deliver a devastating blow, should he try to make a break for it.

And that's when she recognized the guy. Flannel jacket, shaggy brown beard and all.

" _August?_ "

She felt the adrenaline leave her system all at once, veins instead flooding with something cool and calm and  _finally._  She lowered her weapon immediately, crouching down on the kitchen floor where her brother lay prone.

"Emma?" He chuckled, his shock seeming to leave him a little punch drunk. "I left the door open again, didn't I?" he sighed aloud, through a gasp of pain. He must have twisted that ankle pretty good. But Emma was more distracted by the fact that he was there. Really there. Right in front of her, the front of his jacket rough against her fingers.

"You're back?" It was stupid question. But she figured she was owed this one. She fought back the tears she could feel collecting in the corner of her eyes, taking in every detail of him with her eyes. The beard was new. And the unruly hair, grown out until it now obscured his eyes. He was like Brad Pitt after seven years in Tibet.

"Of course," he winced, trying to prop himself up on one elbow. "What? You didn't really think I'd miss Christmas, did you?"

Which was about when her cool relief began to be replaced by anger. White, hot, justifiable anger.

"Five months, August?!" She said, going to nudge him with her fist, only to find the fire extinguisher still in her hands, whacking him in the shoulder. "Five fucking months with one fucking postcard?! Are you out of your goddamn mind?!" She leaned forward again, and he braced for another impact, but instead of whacking him again, she dropped the extinguisher to the floor and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him fiercely. "You stupid son of a bitch," she whispered into his jacket.

"I missed you too, Emma," he said, and she could feel the curve of his smile against her cheek. She didn't let go of him immediately, not until it became clear that their position on the floor wasn't so great on his ankle, and she pulled away. But August's smile disappeared in an instant, as he brushed his hair from his eyes, his mouth forming a hard line.

"What the fuck happened to your eye?" He unconsciously raised a hand to trace her face, and she winced when he made contact.

"You should see the other guy," Emma shrugged, trying to avoid his rather fixed gaze, rising to her feet and offering him a hand up.

He took her proffered hand, and managed to stand up, before hobbling a few feet to the nearest chair. "Emma..." His tone meant he wasn't in the mood for vagueries. Which was kind of ironic, when you thought about it.

Emma shrugged again, trying to emphasize that this  _wasn't_  a big deal. "I antagonized the wrong woman. And I ended up worse off for it. It's fine, really. She's not showing up again, and Killian made sure I didn't have a concussion."

"Killian?" August asked, clearly confused. "What has he got to do with it?" Which was about where Emma's patience snapped.

"Do you not read my emails  _at all?_ How do you think I've managed to get by these past five months with no job and no rent money from you, exactly? I've been staying in Killian's spare room, answering his phones, saving on utilities, so that we wouldn't get evicted from this apartment! Or did you not notice the absence of light or heat or water, or any of those other things that we usually have?"

August opened his mouth to speak, but Emma was on a roll now, and she wasn't stopping for anybody.

"So  _of course_ Killian was there. He's been there the whole time. Because  _you weren't_. Because you disappeared for damn near half a year without leaving so much as a note! Even after you promised! You think the last few months have been easy for me? Or for him? Do you even know what happened with him and Milah? Do you even  _care_?"

"Emma..." But she silenced him with a glare.

"No," she continued. "You had five months to say something and you didn't! I love you, and I missed you like hell, and I'm glad you're home, but I don't think I can do this right now. My whole face hurts, I look like Lindsay Lohan's mugshot, and I need a shower, and that means going back to Killian's. Don't forget to lock the fucking door after me." And with that, she took the warmest looking jacket off the hook by the door, and left.

* * *

He was still there when she got back.

Even though it was after ten, and Jones Investigations should have opened an hour ago, there he was, still sitting at his kitchen table, scratching Smee behind the ears with a glazed expression on his face.

She forced herself to stop in front of him, and look him in the face. "Hi," she said, her greeting softer than she would have liked.

He lifted his head to meet her gaze. "The fire escape, Swan?  _Really?_ " He didn't seem angry exactly. Exhausted, maybe. Tired of her shit.

"Gave the old lady downstairs quite the show," Emma tried to smile.

"Joanna," Killian said absently, indicating downstairs. "I suppose I shouldn't expect a mince pie off her this Christmas."

"Sorry," Emma said, hoping he would realize she was apologizing for more than just the pie.

"T'salright, Swan. I didn't much fancy them anyway. I think every one she's ever given me is still sitting in the back of my pantry, uneaten." His tone had grown warmer. Not quite teasing, but Emma still felt that tight band of dread loosen in her gut. But only a fraction, as he seemed to see past their awkward small-talk, and see something else.

"Are you alright, Emma?" he asked, far too gently than she deserved, rising from his chair. "Because you don't seem alright. And if that's about last night, we can-"

"August is back," she said, ripping off that Band-Aid.

" _Oh_." But whatever that  _Oh_ meant, Emma couldn't say.

"I almost accosted him with a fire extinguisher, and I think he sprained his ankle. And I might have said some things. "

"So about as successful a homecoming as one could hope for, then?" he asked, trying for a bit of levity.

"If it's okay, I'm going to take a shower. And if I don't come out in half an hour, you have my permission to come in and make sure I haven't drowned myself."

"Emma." He stepped in front of her then, blocking her path.

"I was kidding," Emma clarified. "I'm not really going to drown myself. I just feel like shit."

"I know," he answered simply, his hands reaching up to trail down her arms in a way he thought comforting. "But it's going to be okay. You and August will work it out."

"You think so?" She hated how needy she sounded in that moment. And his fingers running down her arms  _were_ comforting.

"I know so," he shrugged, like there was no doubt.

"I wish I had half of your confidence," Emma muttered.

"You can borrow it, if you like," he offered, with a small wink.

"Thanks," she said, with a tiny smile, stepping around him. "Oh, and Killian?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm sorry. For splitting. For... everything."

And then before he could say another word, or tell her it was okay, when it really wasn't okay, she stepped into the hall, and out of his sight.


	14. Three's A Crowd

_**Killian** _

Maybe he should have expected her to bolt.

After all, he knew enough to know Emma Swan was hardly the type to stick around after an  _unguarded_  moment. There was a reason all of her romantic entanglements to date had been doomed to fail from the start. The ponce from the furniture store? They all knew  _that_  was never going to last, even before it transpired he was still married. And Graham? He was a mate, and Killian could admit the man had his good points, but a cop and a journalist  _never_  made for a good combination. They were too often at cross-purposes. Surely Emma knew that, going in. She was a smart lass. Too smart, sometimes. Emma was many things, actually, but none of them were emotionally available.

He knew this. And yet, he couldn't quite mask his keen disappointment at finding the apartment empty, her window left wide open, curtains billowing inwards with the frigid wind, revealing her hasty method of exit.

_The bloody fire escape. **  
**_

He couldn't deny, that smarted a little. She could have at least used the front bloody door.

Risking hypothermia in her rush to get away from him, sans seasonally appropriate attire? It seemed a tad on the dramatic side. He knew it was a habit of hers to just freeze someone out until they gave up on her, but there was no need for her to  _literally_  freeze to fucking death in the process.

He reached forward to slide the window closed, a sudden gust of icy wind biting uncomfortably at his fingertips as he struggled to get a purchase on the wooden frame. With one last desperate tug, the window finally came unstuck, crashing down into the sill with no small amount of force, a small crack forming in the glass.  _Blasted window_. He really should have sprung for a place with double glazing. Cursing under his breath, he returned to the kitchen, where sat two rapidly cooling plates piled high with bacon, eggs and sausages, and Smee eyeing off both from his place on the linoleum, tail wagging in earnest at the expectation of leftovers.

Stepping over him, Killian picked his phone up off the table, dialing Emma's number. He was so busy trying to figure out exactly what he was going to say to her, he didn't notice the commotion in the living room. Not until Smee gave a sharp series of barks, and then, over the sound of the call trying to connect, he heard it. A John Williams score, emanating from the device still buzzing along the surface of his coffee table.

" _Really, Swan_?" he sighed to himself, ending the call with the press of his thumb. "The Jaws theme?" He slid his device back into his pocket, turning around to consider his ruined breakfast plans.  _He was pathetic_. As if he could have expected a better outcome, given everything that had happened. No matter which way you looked at it, things were going to be awkward. Last night had been... last night had been unexpected. It  _had_  been an unguarded moment, and even the memory of it left him feeling a little off-kilter. Like he'd glimpsed something in Emma he ought not to have seen. Something she kept hidden beneath the surface, something she hadn't even known she was letting him see. But that was neither here no there. No matter what he'd thought he'd seen, or what he'd found himself feeling, he had no reason to expect anything to come of it. Emma's sleepy, doped-up confession that she _"gave a fuck about him, too,"_ notwithstanding, she'd given no indication that their shared moment had meant anything to her beyond the obvious. And it was hardly an ideal situation.

She was still his employee. His  _only_  employee, come to that. She was still living under his roof. And though he was loathe to admit it, it wasn't exactly like she'd chosen either of those things. She'd been desperate, and he'd been in a position to help. But he could hardly ignore that given half a chance, she'd be back in her apartment in Mission Hill, working as a real journalist again.

He sighed again, rubbing at his face with the heel of his hand, before looking down at his carefully prepared breakfast, the whipped cream from her hot chocolate already completely melted into her mug, the drink overflowing onto the coaster.  _He was pathetic._ What had he been trying to accomplish anyway? This was Emma Swan, after all. Cold, clever, emotionally distant Emma Swan. The only person she'd ever really truly cared about was August. And August... well, that was a whole other kettle of fish, wasn't it? He was sure there was some arbitrary Bro Code violation in there somewhere. He'd have to ask Victor to confirm. Although, on second thought, maybe he was not the best person to be confiding all his secrets to. The man tended to shoot his mouth off when he'd had a few.

Of course, there was always Tink. But hadn't it been her bloody fault to begin with? She'd planted the seed, after all, hadn't she? Interrogating him about the  _true nature_  of his living situation with Emma, over ludicrously priced banana daiquiris.

"Oh, c'mon!" she had said, draining another glass. "She's  _totally_  your type!"

"And what type is that, exactly? Blonde? Annoying? Partial to dark spirits? Or are you talking about yourself again?" he had teased, leaning forward to brush a stray strand of said blonde hair behind her ear. "I told you already, lass. If you are thinking of starting things up again, you need to learn to be much more subtle about it. A man likes to be wooed."

She didn't want to start things up again. That ship, as they say, had sailed. Nor was he so willing to try to recapture that previous spark. They'd had it, once upon a time, but he knew better than to think the answer to his problems lay in the past. They weren't the same people they had been, and though she was still one of his favorite people, he knew they'd never make each other happy. But he  _did_  like to tease her, especially if he could distract her from her next great  _project._ Sadly, she hadn't been so easily dissuaded from the subject of Emma Swan, and she had continued making her case. As if it was impossible to live in close quarters with a sarcastic, knock-out blonde for any length of time, without succumbing to adolescent urges.

_Bloody Tink._

It was she that he blamed for his state when he'd arrived home that night, his cheeks numb with cold, but his veins still thrumming with the lingering warmth of rum. Emma had been laid on the couch with a DVD playing, when he'd crept up next to her on wobbly feet. She'd been dozing. Not something he'd realized until his greeting had already woken her, her head nuzzling adorably into the cushion, blanket tightening around her.

She was softer when she was sleepy, the sharp edges that usually kept people at a distance dulled by the effects of her endearingly discombobulated state, even as she fought her way back to consciousness. And in that moment, he truly did curse Tink, because though he'd always realized in an objective kind of way that Swan was an attractive enough lass, it hadn't been until that moment on the couch, watching her fight back a yawn with sleepy determination, her hair fanned out around her in untidy golden waves, that he felt that long forgotten swoop, low in his gut.

He hadn't been expecting it. That jolt of sudden attraction. It had been some time since Milah, and he hadn't exactly been itching to get back out there after everything that had happened. He knew what he'd felt in her absence couldn't be healed by the bevy of barflies who'd offered to warm his bed. But Emma? Well, she wasn't just anyone.

It was a bad idea, of course. A terrible idea. But the rum had made him bold, and as he took his place down on the couch cushion beside her, he couldn't quite deny himself the warmth of her company. So they bantered, as they always did, her comebacks a little slower than usual, a little friendlier. And when she gave him a playful kick with her foot, he didn't let go of it once he'd caught it. A smarter man would have realized the idiocy of the situation and retired to bed, but Killian had never really managed to stay on the smart path for too long. More so, her gentle ribbing over his evening plans with Tink fanned a tiny flame of hope in him, which grew stronger with each tiny smile. He'd reveled in the feel of her foot in his hands. Even through the thin material of her very fetching BB-8 novelty socks, she was so warm, and so very alive against his fingers. When he'd begun his ministrations with his thumb, he'd half expected her to pull away, to feign ticklishness, and break their connection. But when she'd responded to his first tentative touches with a stifled moan, and a curse which bordered the realms of decency, he knew he was done for.

It had just been a foot massage between friends. Payment rendered for a favor owed. They had each trotted back to their own separate rooms afterwards, and there had been no awkwardness over scrambled eggs the next morning. But in Killian's mind, it was also the unlocking of a door he'd kept barred for a long time. One which led to somewhere like  _maybe._

But now that he'd kicked that door in, only to have it slam back in his face, he wondered if he should regret the turn things had taken.

Smee looked like all his Christmases had come at once when Killian finally admitted defeat, spooning the sausage links into his bowl, before taking a seat at the table, and stuffing in forkfuls of his now cold breakfast. While he ate, he considered a future where Emma never actually came back. One where her things simply disappeared from the apartment one day whilst she knew he was at work. Like Milah had done.

Though at least she had left a forwarding address, so he could post the little things she'd forgotten. Not that he'd managed to work up the courage to part with that last box, exactly, in the end. It had just been a few hair ties, lip glosses, a few trashy paperbacks. Nothing really. Just a few odds and ends. She wouldn't miss them. He'd tucked the box in the back of his closet and mostly forgotten about it until the day he saw the announcement in the paper.

 _It was a boy._  Born to Milah and Robert Spinner, a miracle child for his parents, blissfully reunited after a decade apart. _  
_

That night, he'd taken the box out into the alley behind the apartment, doused it in petrol, and set it on fire. There was something oddly calming about watching those flames obliterate those last few traces of their life together. Something cleansing.

He went back upstairs afterwards smelling of gasoline and smoke, but if Emma noticed, she didn't say anything, just tossed him the remote as he came in the door, telling him it was his turn to pick their next Jimmy Stewart movie. They'd watched  _Rear Window_ , and Emma had fallen asleep even before the part where the neighbor's dog is killed.

He wished she hadn't left her phone behind. Even if she was intent on ignoring him for the rest of time, he wanted to at least know she was alright. To make sure she definitely hadn't lost any toes to frostbite on her way down the fire escape.

* * *

When she showed up again, two hours later, Killian did wonder for a moment if she was just a figment of his sleep-deprived mind.

He should have been at work. But what with his schedule oddly clear without Zelena Beck on the books, and his assistant on the lam, he didn't much feel up to it. He was calling it a mental health day. And he couldn't deny, at least a tiny part of him wanted to see if Emma would sneak back in to pick up her phone and her wallet. He'd cleaned up from breakfast, and had returned to his same seat at the kitchen table, Smee curled in his lap, a coffee untouched on the table beside him. He'd been tempted to make it Irish, but he purposefully hadn't replenished his rum supply since the Ariel incident, knowing he'd made a foolish spectacle of himself. He'd settled instead for absently scratching Smee behind his ears, when he heard the key in the lock.

If Emma was surprised to find him there, she didn't show it. Nor did she show immediate signs of wanting to make another break for it, if the way she stepped forward in front of his chair was any indication. Not willing to spook her, should she disappear again, he waited for her to make the first move.

"Hi," she said in greeting, her voice softer and more girlish than he would have expected. His eyes snapped up at last to meet hers.

Sometime in the last two hours she'd acquired shoes, a jacket, and a weary glaze over her eyes. Though he never would have said it aloud, she looked like hell. Her left eye had swollen up something fierce overnight, and the bruise had taken on a lovely purple color. He really should have made her ice it for longer, instead of letting himself get carried away.

"The fire escape, Swan?  _Really?"_ He'd been planning on taking it easy on her, but he couldn't entirely resist the jab.

She looked chastened, and he was almost attempted to apologize, when she followed up with a trademark Emma response, no sign of embarrassment despite the circumstances.

He almost believed it, as they fell back into small-talk. But she was still quiet, too apologetic. Emma didn't usually  _do_ apologetic.

"Are you alright, Emma?" he asked, slowly rising from his chair. "Because you don't seem alright. And if that's about last night, we can-"

"August is back," she said out of nowhere, interrupting the words he'd been silently rehearsing for hours.

And then he realized what she had said. " _Oh_." _  
_

August was back. After damn near half a year, he'd finally shown his face. And if the tiny tremble to Emma's lips was any clue, or the fact that August hadn't immediately trailed in after her, it hadn't been a smooth homecoming.

"I almost accosted him with a fire extinguisher, and I think he sprained his ankle." He resisted the urge to snort. "And I might have said some things."  _All of them justly deserved_ , he was sure. He had a few choice words prepared for the man himself.

But Emma didn't seem to wear the strain well. Instead of letting herself be fueled by righteous fury, as was her right in this scenario, she just looked upset, and it pained him to see her like that. He'd promised himself he'd tread carefully where Emma's boundaries were concerned, but even so, he found himself trying to comfort her, rubbing his hands up and down her arms in a way he hoped she would find soothing.

She excused herself to go have a shower, but not before pausing in the entrance to the hallway and offering up another apology, this time for bolting. She alluded to being sorry for more than just that, but before he could ask her what she had meant by that, she'd already disappeared down the hall, the bathroom door closing firmly behind her.

It hadn't been a proper conversation. Not the kind they needed. But it could wait until Emma was up to it. At least she was back. That was enough for now.

* * *

His phone rang whilst she was still in the shower. He'd been tempted to let it go to voicemail, but the  _Blocked Number_ which came up on Caller ID was too tantalizing a prospect.

"Jones Investigations," he answered, with his standard business tone.

There was silence over the line, and then a young lass's voice broke through, with a distinctive South Boston accent. "Hello, this is Jenna calling from Albert Spencer's office. Would you be available now to take his call?"

 _Albert Spencer._  The name was familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. He racked his brains, trying to shake something loose.

"Sir?" the girl prompted. And then, he remembered. Albert Spencer. Regina Mills's attorney. He was basically the Johnnie Cochran of the North-East. The same man Killian had been up last night composing an email to in the small hours, when his mind had been stubbornly fixed on other things.

"Now's fine."

"Please hold," she said, the end of words cut off by a spirited Tchaikovsky rendition. Followed shortly thereafter by a click, and the gravelly voice of a man who commanded an hourly rate which could have paid off Killian's student loans in a week.

"Killian Jones," Spencer began. "I've heard good things about you."

He resisted the urge to laugh out loud. There was no way  _that_ was true. His silence may have said the words for him, however, because Spencer continued, undeterred. "We have a mutual friend, I believe. A Ms. Bell?"  _Tink? He knew Tink?_

 _"_ She's a good friend," Killian managed, finding his voice at last.

"Indeed," Spencer agreed. "She certainly sings your praises. Says you're quite the skilled investigator. So naturally, the news that you were under the employ of one Zelena Beck gave me pause."

"You're..." He tried to absorb this. "You're already familiar with Zelena Beck, then?"

"Quite," the man agreed. "I've been handling the Mills family's legal concerns for many years. And though I expect this to stay between us, I was made aware early on as to the circumstances of her adoption. Moreover, I was tasked with ensuring that Ms. Beck would never come to present a threat to the family."

"Even if she  _is_  family?" Killian challenged.

"Zelena Beck  _has_  a family. A lovely, yet childless couple from Wichita who took her in, and raised her as their own. But we both know that wasn't enough for her. I did an investigation of my own. Zelena has been in and out of psychiatric wards since she was a teenager. She's documented as being unbalanced. She needs proper care. So you can imagine my concern on finding out that, not only had she relocated to Boston, but that she was considered a suspect in the recent fire which claimed Ms. Mills's home."

Killian had done his own digging into Zelena's life. He'd had to, to verify her claims on who her mother was. But somehow, he'd missed the psychiatric ward admissions. Hadn't thought to look for them. He was quickly coming to realize that had been his mistake.

"Look, I know you have your own ethical bounds. Client confidentiality, and whatnot," Spencer continued, laying on the charm. "But I'd implore you to share the fruits of your investigation with me. Forewarned is forearmed, and I'd like to know exactly what information Zelena has in her possession, so I can limit the damage."

He was good, appealing to Killian's rational mind. Including him in his confidences. But Killian didn't miss the implications of bringing up Tink's name. This was a man with connections, and powerful friends. He was too smart to issue threats. He didn't need to. Spencer had the ability to make Tink's life much harder, or much easier, depending on which side of the fence Killian landed on.

"Ordinarily, I'd balk at handing over client files...  _Especially_  to the person I'd been tasked with investigating," Killian began. "As you say, it's a breach of confidentiality..." He let that hang for a few moments. He couldn't deny, a tiny, dark part of him enjoyed having this man, with his enviably win-rate, and millions in retainers, at his mercy, if only momentarily. "But as it happens, Zelena Beck is no longer my client. And the circumstances where we parted ways were... less than favorable. So I can give you anything you need."

He heard the interference over the line as Albert Spencer let out a relieved breath. "I can have a courier come by your office to pick up the relevant documents. Shall we say noon?" he said smoothly.

"Uh," Killian turned to glance up at the clock above the stove. It was nearing half ten. It was tight, but he could make it if he hurried. "That's fine. You have the address?"

"Jenna has it on file. I thank you for your assistance with this matter, Mr Jones."

"Happy to help," he said, unsure if he wanted to imply he'd be reachable in the future.

Ratting out Zelena Beck was one thing. Any professional courtesy he'd shown her in the past was forfeit the moment she'd gone after Emma. But it would be bad for business if word got around that Killian Jones gave up his clients. He hoped it wouldn't come to that.

The line went dead then, Albert Spencer having gotten what he needed, and Killian slid his phone back into his pocket.

He debated waiting for Emma to emerge from her shower, but another glance at the clock made his mind up for him. Even if she did make an appearance, there wasn't time to say all he wanted to say. Instead he scribbled her a note and left it by the coffee pot, urging her to take the rest of the day off, that he'd be back in a few hours. He left Smee in her care, even with the pup giving him major dose of pity-me eyes on his way to the door.

"Oh, don't give me that look!" he told him, kneeling down to give him a final bit of fuss. "You love staying with Emma! She lets you sit on the couch, and I  _know_  she's been giving you extra treats when I'm not around." Smee remained unmoved, though his pleading look softened a little with a well-placed scratch behind the ears. And then, reluctantly, with his new deadline pressing at the back of his mind, Killian stood up again, straightened his messenger bag across his shoulder, and with one last stay command, left the apartment.

* * *

When he'd arrived back at the office the day before, he'd been a little too preoccupied with Emma, who'd sat on the landing outside, hand still clutched to her rapidly swelling face, to bother taking in the condition of his work space. To say it had seen better days was putting it mildly.

His desk chair had been overturned in the scuffle. Papers were scattered everywhere. Stationary supplies lay strewn on the carpet on the opposite side of the room than they'd started, as if at one point they'd been used as projectiles. It must been a hell of a dust-up. Not for the first time, he regretted being too cheap to install security cameras. If nothing else, he was sure the ensuing video would have garnered quite the online following. Not that he'd be so unkind. But it was definitely a thought.

He didn't have much time to tidy up before the courier arrived, resplendent in his blue overalls, grumpy and slightly winded from climbing the stairs. He took the proffered manila envelope with a bare modicum of civility, jamming it into his dedicated plastic pouch, and holding his clipboard out for Killian to sign. When he did, he merely grunted his thanks, before returning back down the stairs he'd so despised.

When the door opened again not two minutes later, Killian looked up from his desk expecting a return of the ill-tempered courier, chasing another signature. What he hadn't expected, was to see August saunter in, casually folding himself into one of the visitor's chairs, looking up at him expectantly. Like he'd been gone all of five minutes, and not near half a bloody year.

He looked different. A little shaggier, a little more unkempt than when he'd left. He had a touch of that back-to-nature vibe about him now. Killian was sure at least one article of clothing was made from hemp. He still had that same amused half-smile though, visible even under the makings of his new hipster beard. And if he wasn't mistaken, something of a limp, supporting Emma's claims of an ankle injury.

"The prodigal son returns, I see," Killian muttered, glancing down to finish the sentence he'd been writing. If August was expecting a warm reception, he'd come to the wrong place.

"So that's how it is?" August asked, swiveling in his seat to throw his legs over the arm of his chair, making himself more comfortable.

"That's how it is," Killian agreed flatly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw August dip his head to the side, as if considering that. "I suppose that's fair. Drink?"

Killian wanted to laugh. Surely he didn't think it would be that easy? One drink at The Rabbit Hole and all would be forgiven. "Not with you," he said, not looking up from his notes.

"Oh c'mon! One drink! My shout. Aren't you the least bit curious to know where I've been?"

He  _was_  curious. Deadly curious. But it wasn't August's tall tales of far-fetched places that interested him. It was the why of it. Why had it taken him so long to come home? Why hadn't he called? Emailed? Sent word via a bloody carrier pigeon? And, perhaps more importantly, _why had he left Emma to fend for herself?_

"Alright," he said, putting his pen down with a sigh, and standing up from his chair. "One drink. And you'll tell me where you've bloody well been for the last five months."

August's grin was victorious as he rose from his own chair. "Scout's honor!" he said, curling his right hand into a three-fingered salute, as Killian shifted around the desk to stand beside him.

"One more thing, before we depart," Killian said, waiting for August to lift his head in question. Then, when he knew he had his attention, he pulled his fist back and cracked August in the jaw, hard enough to have him stumbling backwards.

"That was for Emma. Don't you  _ever_  fucking do that again."

Then with a new spring in his step, he walked over the coat rack, pulling on his warmest jacket. "You coming?" He asked brightly, turning back to August, who was still rubbing his jaw. Gingerly, the other man gave a solemn nod, before following him out the door.


	15. The Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up

**_Killian_ **

The Rabbit Hole wasn't far, situated as it was half way between Killian's work and his apartment, convenient stumbling distance from both. It was just your everyday dingy-looking neighborhood dive really, wherein lay the appeal. He and August had discovered it about a month after they'd first moved in together, two very different men with vastly different ideas as to what exactly constituted good housekeeping. Had it not been for his ability to nip down to the pub for a quick pint on the regular, Killian doubted very much the arrangement would have lasted another month. As it was, The Rabbit Hole was an undiscovered gem, set in a gentrified wasteland of trendy cocktail bars and gin places. The Rabbit Hole didn't really  _do_  trendy. It wouldn't have known trendy had it rode in out of the cold on vintage roller-skates with a flashmob song-and-dance number.

It wasn't much to look at. The brickwork outside was slowly but surely losing the war against the graffiti insurgency, the windows long ago boarded up and newspapered over, a yellowing account of the later Reagan years. Inside, things weren't much better. There was the usual meager selection of generic beer on tap, the dusty jukebox in the corner which only played hits from The Best of Queen, no matter which selection you made. And then there was Will, the perpetually downcast barman, a fellow Brit with a penchant for bitching out his ex-wife, or whoever dared approach him when his team was playing. For a fellow expat who'd grown weary of fake-smiling Americans with their dentist-white smiles, Will's scowl had felt like a little bit of home. He'd never quite forgiven Killian for being a Spurs man, but the two had fashioned a friendship of sorts, based on lighthearted insults and a shared aversion to all things gridiron.

There wasn't much of a lunchtime crowd when Killian steered August inside, just the usual lot of daytime drunks holding court, most too busy staring into the bottom of their glasses to notice them as they came in, stamping their feet on the mat and brushing the snow from their hair. Will stood leaning against the bar, his attention fixed on the muted television in the corner, on which some quiz show was playing. It wasn't until the door slammed shut behind them that he registered their presence, straightening where he stood, some life returning to his eyes.

"Oi, look what the blizzard brought in!" He called, giving August a cheerful wave. But Killian just shoved August into the nearest booth before the two could get caught reminiscing, approaching the bar himself.

"Bit early for the usual, innit?" Will asked, eyes glancing across to the bottle of Captain Morgan sat on the shelf behind him. "And why didn't you bring Emma with you? She's a damn sight better for sore eyes than you two tossers."

You couldn't get that kind of customer service on Newbury Street.

"I wouldn't say no to some ice. Got a few empty peanut bowls laying about?" Killian ask casually, holding up his bruised knuckles for Will's inspection. He saw the young man's eyes travel from the hand, back to where August sat slumped in the booth, an angry red bruise blooming on his jaw, back to Killian, nodding slowly as it all fell into place.

"Trouble in paradise?" he asked, tutting, placing two wooden bowls on the bar in front of them, and scooping a generous amount of ice into each. "You know, I half expected  _you_  to be the one with the busted up jaw, what with you shacking up with his sister behind his back and everything..."

"Oh, piss off! We didn't-" He saw Will's grin widen as he took the bait, and he broke off with a frustrated groan. "Never mind. Two of the usual. And don't lecture me on how early it is. It's not been the best day."

"I think it's going to get a hell of a lot worse," Will murmured, chin lifting slightly to indicate back towards August's booth, Killian turning to follow his gaze. A man had approached the booth, and he wasn't one of The Rabbit Hole's resident alcoholics. Killian had never seen this one before, a hulking mass of a man in a dark jacket tailored to accentuate his rather impressive arms. But he seemed to know August, alright. And by the set of his jaw, he wasn't happy. When he moved to take the seat opposite August, Killian caught the flash of metal which gave away the piece tucked into his waistband.

So he was a heavy. And he was armed.  _Perfect._

" _Bloody hell_ ," Killian sighed, slapping a twenty down on the bar. Will didn't move, didn't even pretend he was going to make change with it.

"It'll be double if there's blood," he warned in a low voice, placing two glasses of rum on the bar, and stuffing the note into his pocket. Killian merely grumbled his acknowledgement, picking up one of the glasses and knocking it back, until the contents burned a delicious path down his throat. He pulled out his phone a moment, tapped a few times, then replaced it in his pocket. Then taking one last deep breath, he grabbed his second glass and pushed himself away from the bar, sauntering over to where the two men were locked in quiet, tense discussion.

"Can I help you, mate?" Killian asked, swinging in to the booth to sit beside August, squarely meeting the eyes of the man opposite. As expected, the conversation dried up rather quickly, as the man took in this newcomer with the same kind of expression most reserve for when they've stepped in something nasty.

"Kill-" August began in warning, but the other man cut him off.

"This is a private conversation," the man said carefully, in a way that didn't allow room for interpretation. "And it doesn't concern you,  _mate."_

"Sounds ominous," Killian shrugged nonchalantly, taking a sip of his rum. "I'd love to hear more. And so would my friend, Detective Humbert from Major Crimes. I have him on speaker."

"And I'm all ears," came the voice, tinny but clear enough from Killian's pocket. He resisted the urge to sigh with relief, glad the bastard had actually picked up the phone. Instead he offered the muscle-bound goon a toothy grin.

"So, what do you say? Everybody up for a friendly chat?" he asked brightly, clasping his hands together in anticipation.

Knowing he was out-maneuvered, the stranger's face darkened, a purple vein on his forehead getting more prominent by the second. He turned to August, his voice cool. "Remember what I said." And then with that, he stood up from the booth and made his way out of the bar, the door slamming shut behind him.

As soon as the stranger was out of view, August seemed to visibly crumble, his rigid posture giving way to something altogether more fragile, his hands shaking as they snaked across the table to claim the rest of Killian's drink.

"You shouldn't have done that," he said, between gulps. "You shouldn't have mentioned the cops. It's not your-"

Killian quietened him with a look, and pulled out his phone, placing it on the table in front of them. "Thanks for that, mate. I owe you one."

"More than one," came Graham's unamused reply. "Are you going to tell me what that was about?"

"Just a small misunderstanding between friends. Nothing to concern yourself with. I'll see you in the New Year, yeah?" And then he terminated the call with a tap of his finger before the detective could get another word in, his eyes returning to August.

"You didn't need to-" he began, but Killian didn't let him finish, grabbing him by the scruff of the collar and dragging him close.

"Look," he said gravely, fingers tightening their hold on August's shirt. "We're getting out of here. Someone has clearly been watching the place, and they could come back. We're going to find you a nice place to hole up, and keep your nose clean. And  _then_  you are going to tell me exactly what the bloody hell you've found yourself caught up in. Otherwise I'm going to march Emma down here to pull it out of you. And I'm guessing there is a good reason you've kept her at arm's length for all these months." He loosened his grip on the shirt a little. "So, what do you say? Want to take a little drive?"

* * *

Killian made a few calls from the apartment in Mission Hill, as August got some clothes together. Emma didn't pick up when he tried her, but that wasn't unusual, so he left a short message, telling her to more or less keep her head down. He had more luck with his other calls. Killian wasn't going to say he was being paranoid, but he may have taken a rather serpentine route to their final destination, a few unnecessary detours, checking his rear-view mirror all the while to ensure they weren't followed as they made their way down recently cleared suburban streets.

"Where on God's Green Earth are you taking me?" August asked from the passenger seat, watching out the window as the city fell away, replaced by snow-covered lawns with swing-sets and trampolines. "Stepford?"

"Close," Killian admitted, pulling into the freshly shoveled driveway of a two storey Victorian. "You remember my mate Dave, right?"

"The firefighter?" August asked, glancing suspiciously up at the house.

"Arson Squad Investigator," Killian corrected, unbuckling his seat belt.

The change in August was almost immediate. "No way!" he said, clicking his own seat belt back in. "I am not staying with cops. That little stunt of yours back in the bar was bad enough. But  _this?_ " He motioned to the offending house, lit up like a wedding cake in a Winter Wonderland. "No fucking way."

Killian just shrugged. "Safest place I know, short of bundling you off to London to stay with my brother. And if I thought running away was the answer, I'd already have you on the plane. But I'm guessing that it'll just delay the inevitable. Like your little sojourn to South-East Asia? I'm assuming you were running from something?"

August didn't deny this theory, just fixed him with an unforgiving look.

"Look, mate. Dave is a good man. Trustworthy. And after his rather unspectacular showing at the last Poker Night, he owes me one. They've agreed to put you up for a couple of days, no questions asked."

August still looked uncertain, so he added the requisite guilt trip, just to nudge him in the right direction. "And his wife is lovely. She's already got the spare bedroom made up, and a pot roast waiting." He cracked his door open, pushing it wide. "You wouldn't want her going to all that trouble for nothing, would you?" he said with a wink, stepping from the car.

With an exaggerated groan, August followed him up the path to the house, his backpack slung over one shoulder.

When the door opened it was David himself who was the one to greet them, his smile jovial, but a hint of suspicion in his eyes cooling their usual warmth. "Appreciate it, mate," Killian murmured low, as he pulled him into a black-slapping hug. Dave just rose a single eyebrow, which seemed to convey all he needed to say.  _I'd better not regret this_ , said the look. Then he turned to August, taking the backpack from him, and ushering them into the kitchen, where an early dinner awaited.

Mary Margaret Nolan was playing the consummate hostess, pressing multiple helpings on everyone, and keeping up a constant stream of friendly chatter, nothing too serious. It went a long way towards removing that look in August's eye that said he was going to make a break for it as soon as he could excuse himself for a bathroom break. Killian knew the look well enough. Emma had it too, after all. They might not have been actual blood relations, but they still shared some innate qualities. A childhood like theirs would do that to a person. Too many years spent always on the defensive, always waiting for the next shoe to drop. They both never talked about it, what it had been like for them growing up. But an orphan's an orphan. Killian had some experience in that arena. And fleeing down fire escapes or jetting off to hide away in remote jungles? Maybe not so unexpected, considering. In any case, he was glad to see that look go, as August shoveled down a second helping of blueberry pie, lost in regaling them all with tales from his travels between bites.

"So," said David at last, pushing his chair out from the table. "Mary Margaret and I thought we might head to the megaplex. Catch the new Nicholas Sparks." No one missed the pained look in his eyes as he said it, least of all his wife, who'd, judging by his wince, kicked him under the table. "Anyway," he said again, voice a little more strangled, "We thought we might give you some time to... get settled. Leave the dishes. We'll take care of them." And then he rose from the table, giving Killian a small nod as he left.

"And you're welcome to stay too, Killian," his wife piped up, just before she left the room. "There's only the couch free, but it's not  _that_  bad, and we have plenty of spare blankets. They say there's going to be another foot of snow tonight. I don't like the idea of you driving back to the city in that." He nodded, to show that he would consider it, and then they were alone, at last.

"Well, that was subtle," August said, leaning back in his chair, a small grin playing on his lips.

"Not their strong suit," Killian agreed, reaching over to take August's plate and stack it on top of his own. "But as I said, they're decent people."

"Yeah, I think I'm beginning to pick up on that," August admitted, passing over the other empty dishes. He let an awkward silence fall between the two, and eventually it grew to be too much.

"So, are you going to tell me why you have armed men with steroid problems hassling you? Or am I going to have to keep assuming the worst?" Killian asked at last, getting up to place the stack of dishes in the sink.

"It's not-" August faltered, tried again. "This isn't your problem, Kill."

"Like  _fuck_  it's not my problem! Despite all evidence to the contrary, you're still my best mate. I sure didn't spend all those years living with you because you were so bloody dependable with the rent!" He felt the warm anger travel down his arms, radiating in his clenched fists, and he took a moment to compose himself, taking his seat again at the table.

"And you and I both know that it isn't just you," he said, his voice more controlled. "Anything that affects you, also affects Emma. And I've made that my concern. So don't pretend this is just your problem. She was five seconds away from the bloody bread line when she showed up at my door. All because you ran out on her when she needed you. I need you to tell me why."

August's head was in his hands now, obscuring most of his face from Killian's view. "I really fucked up, Kill."

"Tell me," he prompted.

"You have to know I wouldn't leave her if I didn't have a choice," he said, hands falling back down to the table, his look beseeching. "I really thought I was doing the best thing for everyone." He was still stalling, and Killian wasn't going to be in a forgiving mood for a while, so he made a  _go on_ gesture with his hands.

"I started working for this guy. Just here and there, to help cover the rent. You know the whole writing thing doesn't really pay all that great." Killian had assumed as much, but he just nodded for him to continue. "Well, about a year ago, I found myself getting in a little deeper. Purely small-time. But I'd get a package, and I had a few dealers under me. About six months ago, one of them skimmed off the top and gave himself a fucking overdose. I came up short, and they weren't happy. I was down a dealer, and a few grand. But with the interest, it wasn't just going away. I couldn't ask Emma to help. Her job didn't pay that well, and it would kill her career if anyone found out. And you and Milah were in the middle of... all that shit. I just figured the best thing would be to leave town, wait for everything to die down. Wait until I had a plan to get the money back."

 _My best friend, the drug dealer_ , Killian thought grimly. Emma would have a cow if she found out.  _When_ she found out.

"And do you? Have a plan?"

"No. But the guy I owed the cash to? I found out he died. Some boating accident, a few weeks ago. I thought I'd come back free and clear. Turns out his son inherited all his debts, and he's got a better memory than I would have given him credit for."

"Someone at the bar probably called it in when they saw you," Killian said, considering the angles. "So this guy has clearly gone to some pains to find you. How much do you owe him?"

"You won't like it," August warned him.

"Fucking spit it out."

"Twenty grand."

"Twenty?!" Killian winced at how sharp his voice sounded, and tried to swallow it down. A few thousand, he could cover. He'd pawn a few things, max out his credit cards. But twenty thousand dollars? He didn't have that kind of money just lying around. He didn't know anyone that did. Except... and he sure as hell wasn't going hat in hand to  _them._ _"Fuck."_

"You see how living in a tree house in Laos was the more attractive option, right?" August said, with just a trace of humor.

"And that's the reason for your radio silence? You were up a bloody tree!?"

August shrugged. "For a month or two. I got a lot of writing done. Not much else to do, really. But I thought it would be best. Emma and I don't have the same last name. I thought that if she seemed like just a girl I used to live with, no one would go after her when I disappeared. And if anyone was watching her, they'd know I hadn't been in contact."

"You should have come to me before," Killian said, holding up a hand when August went to open his mouth. "Milah shit or no Milah shit."

"Yeah," August breathed, letting his forehead fall onto the table, the rest of his words muffled. "I know."

"And you left Emma completely out to dry. If you'd just said you couldn't pay your half of the rent she could have moved, instead of blindly hanging onto that apartment, hoping you'd come back soon."

"Hindsight, and all that," came the answering mutter.

"And digging you out of this hole is going to be a huge pain in the arse," Killian pointed out.

"Yep."

Killian groaned and leaned back in his chair. "I think it's time to raid Dave's liquor cabinet. How do you feel about American Honey?"

* * *

The alcohol wasn't a brilliant idea. He still had to drive back to the city. There was no way he was going to leave Emma alone in the apartment overnight when there were still a whole bunch of scary people out there looking for August. Especially since they knew he was back. Smee was many things, but a good guard dog he was not. An unfortunate side-effect of being all of ten pounds and cute. His tiny red sweaters hardly inspired fear in the hearts of men, and he was at a convenient kicking height. And then there was the whole  _exploiting his friends' hospitality_  angle.

But he let himself enjoy that first glass anyway, the warmth of it spreading through his chest, filling in the chasm inside him that had opened up when he'd first glimpsed August's little friend back in the bar, and had only grown wider and deeper, the more truth came to light. He wasn't one to show it, and he certainly wasn't one to speak of it, but Killian was afraid.

This wasn't a small debt between friends. This was serious cash, owed to seriously not-nice people. And August, his friend, his stupid bloody friend, had found himself caught right between a rock and a hard place.

When the Nolans returned from their cinema outing, both of their eyes a little red-rimmed, however much David tried to hide it, they didn't say anything about the half empty bottle on their coffee table. Rather charitable of them, Killian thought, until they sat down beside them, and joined in. However much they were ignorant of the specifics, the Nolans weren't daft. They knew they'd been dragged into something. Something dangerous. And this knowledge sat uncomfortably on their shoulders, even as they pretended all was well. But the way Mary Margaret gripped her whiskey glass with white knuckles, considering August from the corner of her eye, didn't lie. If Killian was a better friend, maybe he wouldn't have involved them. Maybe if he'd been a better friend to begin with, it all never would have happened.

The rest switched to gin, Killian to water. August conked out early, not even making it upstairs before he passed out on the couch, mouth hanging open unattractively. "Jet lag", Killian had murmured, at David's pointed look. It could have been at least partly true. But when the doorbell sounded, while they were still cleaning, he knew he wasn't fooling anyone.

"I'll get it," Mary Margaret had said, making to head to the door. But her husband had grabbed her hand, his fingers still covered in soap suds, stilling her movements.

" _I'll_  get it," he amended, standing in front of her, sharing a look with Killian. No one missed the sound of him fumbling for the baseball bat in the hall closet on his way to the door.

Both he and Mary Margaret tensed as they heard him open the front door, waiting for whatever came next. So when David returned a few moments later with a smile, they looked at each other, confused. "Well?" Killian asked.

"It's for you," David shrugged, going back to the sink. It was a statement that ordinarily would have given him pause, if it wasn't for the non-nonchalant delivery.  _Nobody_  knew Killian was there.  _That was the point._ He waited for his friend to elaborate, but he didn't, simply returning to his chore, ignoring Killian's incredulous look.

Rolling his eyes, Killian chucked his dish towel at his friend's head, and headed out into the hallway, where David had apparently been content to abandon their guest. Liam would have flayed him alive if  _he'd_ done that. But all thoughts of proper manners were abandoned, when he looked up and saw Emma Swan standing awkwardly by the Nolan's coat rack, wringing her gloved hands in front of her, snowflakes still melting into her hair.

"Hi," she said at last, shrinking under his stare.

"How did you-" he began, but he was silenced by Emma pulling out her phone and waving it in front of her.

She looked pensive, biting at her bottom lip. "What would you say if I told you I hacked the GPS on your phone?"

Well, that certainly explained _that_.

"I'd ask you to teach me how to do that," Killian replied truthfully, earning a small smile from her.

"I know it's weird of me to just show up like this," she said, holding her hands up to indicate the unfamiliar hallway. "But after that message you left me, I guess I just wanted to..." She trailed off, as if she was uncertain she should continue.

"Have I deprived you of a dashing rescue, Swan?" Killian smiled at the thought.

She pointedly ignored his question, continuing with her prepared speech. "I looked up the address. I know David's a friend of yours. I guess I just wanted to be sure. That you were alright."

He'd thought his message to her had been rather calm, if a bit vague. But if it had dragged Emma all the way out to the suburbs at night, in the middle of a blizzard, maybe he hadn't been quite as cool about it as he'd thought.

"Aye, I'll admit it hasn't been the best of days. But I assure you, I'm fine. I was just about to head back, actually. I didn't mean to worry you, lass." Emma scoffed, as if the thought hadn't even occurred to her. As if it hadn't brought her out there.

"Smee was starting to worry," she said, lip twitching with the effort of keeping her smile in check.

"Oh, I see," Killian stepped forward, until he was right in front of her. "It was  _Smee_ that was worried.  _Of_   _course_."

He wanted to kiss her again. He wanted to bury his nose in her hair and inhale the scent of her shampoo. Nay, he wanted to bathe in it. He wanted to lose himself in the feel of her again, and never come up for air. He wanted to forget all of the shit that was raining down on them, take her home, and take her to bed. He wanted that. And with Emma looking at him like that, smiling despite herself, eyes darting down to his lips, it was hard to remind himself of all the reasons he'd decided it wasn't the right time. His promise to himself that he'd give her space. Her abrupt flight from the apartment that morning. The look on her face when she'd returned. The situation with August, hanging over everything like a dark cloud.

Fortunately, that one re-emerged to remind him just as he felt himself leaning in, in the form of a sudden snore. The smile on Emma's face faded, as she stepped around Killian, to peer into the living room behind him.

"Do I want to know why he's here?" she asked, taking in her brother's prone position on the couch, tucked underneath one of Mary Margaret's crochet blankets, looking like far less of a fuck-up than he really was.

"If you do, I won't lie. But it's probably not my place to tell you." She nodded, absorbing that.

"But it's bad?" She asked, as if half-hoping he would correct her.

"It's bad," Killian admitted, knowing her superpower would go off if he tried to sugar coat it.

" _Fuck_."

"My sentiments precisely."

She sighed, looking back over at her sleeping brother. "I think you should probably just tell me anyway. I'm less likely to want to kill someone after if it comes from you."

"Is that fondness I detect in your tone, love?" he joked, wanting to preserve the easiness between them for just a moment longer.

A small smile from her was his answer. "I'll never tell."

"Then I suppose you should lose that coat, and follow me into the kitchen, Swan," he said, taking a small step away. "Because this is going to take some whiskey in the telling. And if you're good, I'll share."


	16. Inside The Barbie Dream House

**_Emma_ **

She didn't kill anyone.

She thought about it, alright. The longer Killian spoke, the greater the impulse to go back into the living room and wring her brother's scrawny neck for ever letting himself get caught up in something so stupid.

August was smarter than that. She  _knew_ he was smarter than that.

Sure, she knew that from time to time he'd bent the law a little to make rent. But he'd heavily implied that had been like, odd jobs for cash, and hustling at pool. Not getting in deep with a small-time drug lord. What had been the point of him dragging her back from Oregon and her life of petty crime, getting her back into school, if he was just going to fuck it all up later by dealing drugs? Why even bother?

Deep down, Emma understood why he hadn't told her. It would have been kind of hypocritical for the reporter behind a number of cheerless exposes on rampant drug use in the public service to have a drug dealer for a brother. The kind of hypocrisy that would have ended her career if it got out, if she still had one.

She got that. What she didn't get, was what the hell had possessed him to start in the first place? They'd never needed the money  _that_  bad, had they? August certainly never acted like he did. And if he had been particularly hard up, he could have just told her. Sure, Emma had liked their apartment. And she'd liked having enough money in her account at the end of the month left over for things like Netflix, and a gym membership that was more aspirational than practical. But she didn't  _need_ those things. If the last two months had proven anything, they'd proven that. Surely he knew that about her?

But it was difficult to grapple with those kinds of thoughts, when she was sat where she was, nursing a tumbler of whiskey in the Nolan's immaculate country-style kitchen, with the two of them lingering awkwardly outside in the hallway. She was sure they were trying to be stealthy about it, but the creaking of the floorboards every minute or so as they shifted their weight from foot to foot gave them away. It didn't feel quite right, what with it being their house and all.

She held up a hand to interrupt Killian mid-sentence, and cleared her throat. "You can come back in! I promise I haven't broken anything!" As expected, the pair slunk back into the room after a suspiciously short amount of time, eyes shifting guiltily. Killian just ducked his head so they couldn't see his smile, getting up to slide out Mary Margaret's chair for her, the slimer.

She wasn't quite sure what to make of the pair of them at first, what with their Barbie Dream House, all strung up with Christmas lights, with an honest-to-god holly wreath on the door. By their short interaction in Finnegan's with David, where they'd managed to get him to do exactly as they wanted just by invoking his wife's name, she'd already figured the guy was whipped. That, together with the way Killian talked about her, she'd been picturing Mary Margaret as this slightly terrifying figure, with her husband's balls in a vice. What she maybe hadn't counted on when she'd stepped into that kitchen, was to be immediately drawn into a warm hug by a bubbly dark-haired woman in a pixie cut, who then had set about fussing over her.  _Had she eaten? Had she really driven in this weather? Caught an Uber? Wasn't that dangerous? Didn't she have gloves? Hadn't she seen the forecast? No, really, had she eaten? Because they had some leftover pot roast they could heat up._

It was a little intense. It wasn't  _bad,_ but it wasn't what she was used to. Sure, Killian liked to keep her fed, and liked to worry over her, but he was never pushy about it. Mary Margaret was pushy about it. As evidenced by the fact that no sooner had Emma sat down, than she'd been presented with a steaming dish of leftovers, a knife and fork, and an inquiry as to whether she preferred sweet tea over orange juice.

She took the sweet tea, along with the amused smirk Killian shot her way.

They seemed like nice people, all eavesdropping aside. Emma could see that. Killian wouldn't have trusted them if they weren't. Not that his skills in that arena were all that great lately, but it went a long way to convincing her. They didn't deserve whatever might happen to them if anyone found out they were harboring August in their spare room. By all accounts, Killian had hustled him out of The Rabbit Hole before the goon had been able to issue a time and a place for August to deliver the balance of his overdue debt. Until then, they'd be looking for him. And they probably wouldn't be asking so nicely the next time.

The Nolans deserved to know what they were getting themselves into, and Emma shot Killian a look which echoed that opinion. After a roll of his eyes and another sip of whiskey, he launched into the narrative again, filling in the blanks they hadn't managed to glean from out in the hallway. All the while Emma sat back and found her way to the bottom of her glass.

She hadn't thought too much about it when she'd decided to follow Killian here. She'd been too preoccupied with her preparations. Her Bug hadn't started when she'd turned the engine over, merely giving a pitiful whine before dying. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was something else. With Killian's voicemail fresh in her mind, she wasn't taking any chances.

 _"And, uh, stay out of trouble, love. That isn't just me spouting the usual line, either, because we both know you are a walking calamity. I'm serious. Watch your back. Any suspicious characters, give them the slip and call me immediately. And don't let his gruff exterior fool you, Smee is_ not _up to task of home security. The last time my brother was in town he broke into my flat and I came home and found him sprawled on the couch, Smee fast asleep on his lap._ Bloody useless creature _. So... call me back. Or don't. Just be careful."_

He'd played it off with his signature self-deprecation and talk of Smee, but there was no mistaking the meaning. Something was up. Something dangerous. And like hell Emma was just gonna let him walk into it alone, no matter how much lingering weirdness there might be. Lingering weirdness which was only compounded when Mary Margaret offered up the spare room to the pair of them, since August had been so kind as to pass out on the couch. The spare room with one double bed.

"Oh," Emma could feel the flush rising in her cheeks. "We're not-, I can just get an Uber back to the city."

She was kind of surprised to see all three of them turn to look at her at once, with something like alarm etched onto their faces.

"At this time?" David asked.

"In this weather?" Mary Margaret asked.

"Alone?" Killian asked.

It was like they'd rehearsed it, the overbearing, overprotective parent bit.

"What?" she said a little defensively, lowering her gaze to the floor. "Smee will be-"

"Smee will be just fine on his own for a few hours," Killian overrode her excuse, rising from his chair. "I've nothing that can't withstand a few hours gnawing  _left_  in that apartment. And let us not forget, there's still a drug kingpin on the lookout for August and whoever might be harboring him. I'd rather you didn't stay alone in the apartment while they are."

"So you're saying what? Just don't go home? Ever?"  _Home._ The word tripped off her tongue before it really registered.

But Killian seemed to catch it. His face softened a fraction, before he offered up his next volley, and his tone softened with it. "I'm not saying that, love. Just not on your own. For now. And if it's sharing a bed with me that has you so set against the idea, you needn't worry. I'm perfectly happy on the floor."

David looked between them, clearly confused. "You mean you two aren't-" But David never managed to finish that sentence, too busy swallowing back a yelp of pain.

"I'll get out the spare blankets," said Mary Margaret in a suspiciously chirpy tone, springing up from her seat beside him, and disappearing from the room.

* * *

"You know," Emma said as she stepped inside the guest room, throwing the light switch, "If you were a true gentleman, you'd sleep on the floor in the living room."

The spare room was very... floral. Floral bedspread. Floral wallpaper. Floral arrangement on the bed stand. Everything a delicate shade of pink. Emma was going to go out on a limb and say David hadn't really contributed too much to the decorating of this particular space. He looked like much more the framed sporting memorabilia type, she thought. Maybe with a collection of souvenir beer coasters tucked away somewhere to match.

"With your brother snoring on the couch a few feet away from me? Not bloody likely. I may be a gentleman, Swan, but even  _I_ have my limits," Killian winked as he walked past her with his armful of blankets. "Now, is it to be this patch of cold floor?" he asked, indicating with his chin to the space at the foot of the bed, "Or perhaps this one?" he indicated over by the window.

"Hey, the floor was  _your_  idea in the first place, buddy," Emma said, holding her hands up innocently.

"Aye," he said, dropping his bundle onto the floor by the window with a soft thump, one hand coming up to scratch behind his ear. "But I really rather thought further bed-sharing could wait until we've had a…  _certain conversation_? And yet, considering your hasty exit this morning, I dare say you're not yet prepared to have it." He'd averted his gaze, studying the quilt pattern with suspicious intensity, but Emma still felt the lump form in her throat.

"Killian, I..." She took an unconscious step forward.

"It's alright, lass," he said, lifting his gaze to hers at last, a friendly flash of blue counteracted by a wan smile. "I'm in no rush. Clearly things... escalated rather quickly. I don't begrudge you time to sort your feelings. "

He was offering her another stay of execution. Another chance to take the coward's way out. And maybe she shouldn't have taken it. Maybe she should have just ripped off that Band-Aid and had both of them lay all their cards on the table. But with that familiar grip of panic tightening around her throat, she wasn't even sure if she could get the words out.

Besides, maybe he was right. Maybe she  _did_ need time.

What with everything that was going on, with an unhinged Zelena Beck still loose on the streets of Boston, what with August's return and the quagmire of stupid he'd found himself in, she had to admit she hadn't really thought about it. Not really.

She'd woken up that morning so sure last night had been the worst kind of fuck up. A disaster of biblical proportions.  _Classic Emma Swan, giving in to her impulses without really thinking through the consequences._

But that was the thing about impulses, wasn't it? They didn't just come out of nowhere. It was true she hadn't planned on jumping him. She hadn't planned it. But she still did. And in that moment, she'd wanted to. She'd really wanted to. And she had to admit it wasn't even the first impulse she'd given into around Killian Jones lately.

Emma didn't  _have_ to land on his doorstep when her utilities got cut off. She could have slept on some other couch, outstaying her welcome with any number of college friends who still lived in the Boston area. She didn't  _have_ to accept his job offer. True, things had been kinda desperate, but her dignity had suffered through worse things than being a department store elf for a few months. She didn't  _have_ to hack into his phone and follow him out to the middle of the 'burbs. But she did. Because his voice hadn't sounded quite right to her in that voicemail he'd left. Because the apartment had seemed so strangely empty without him there. Because she… cared.

Yeah, she could admit as much. She cared.

Sure. She cared. But caring, and  _having feelings_ , they weren't the same thing. Emma cared about August, but half the time she wanted to drop an air conditioning unit on his head. Like right that minute, for instance. Emma had cared about Graham, and she'd still gone behind his back and written that article, knowing he'd hate her for it. August cared about her, she knew, but he'd still screwed her over, and left her alone, when he'd once promised her he never would.

Maybe Killian cared about her too. They way he'd been with her last night, the way it had felt… It sure felt like he had. And the way he'd acted around her since, so fucking careful, but not going out of his way to avoid her, either. It spoke of  _something._ But that didn't mean he had  _feelings_  for her. She knew that he didn't. Couldn't. She'd known as soon as she'd seen that box tucked into the back of her closet that morning. He didn't  _have_   _feelings_ for her. He was still obviously in pieces over Milah, probably with good reason. He was upset, and lonely, any feelings he might have would simply be confusing good sex with something more. Emma would be stupid to make the same mistake.

She must have been silent too long, because she saw the flicker of doubt return to Killian's eyes as he stood there, a scant few feet away. "Maybe it would be best if I did sleep downstairs," he murmured quietly. "I'm sure that egregious new beard of his will muffle the sound of the snoring somewhat," he reasoned sardonically, bending down to retrieve his bundle of blankets off the floor.

"Don't be an idiot," Emma countered, causing him to freeze in the middle of his task, still awkwardly hunched over. She took a small step towards him, effectively blocking him from the door. "There's no need to play the martyr. We can share a bed. I promise, I won't try to jump you again."

He recovered quickly, she had to give him that. "No?" he asked, taking his own small step forward. He paused for a moment, before taking another step to stand directly in front of her, letting his thumbs rest in his belt hoops as he did so, a wicked glint forming in his eye. "Are you sure about that, lass?" He rocked forward a little, letting one eyebrow raise in challenge.

"I think I can handle it," Emma responded blithely, yet leaning imperceptibly closer.

"You think you can handle it?" He repeated back, grin widening as he let the innuendo fall heavily in the air between them.

"Better than you can, buddy," Emma quipped.

"Is that a challenge, darling?" he asked, so close that this warm breath fanned across her cheek, his eyes locked on hers, little pools of blue that were fast losing their mirth, swirling with something altogether darker and more dangerous. "Because I do so _love_  a challenge. But first, I think you should be the one to take the first shower, for I fear that mine may take some time."

And if she had any doubt about what he'd meant by that, it quickly disappeared when one of his large hands reached out to grip her hip, pulling her to him, his mouth hot and insistent when it met her own. It was a dirty kind of kiss, all teeth and tongue, and white hot need coursing right down to her toes. She barely noticed her own hands coming up to tangle in his hair as she swayed into him, lost in the sensation of it. She barely noticed anything at all, beyond the beat of her heart in her ears, and his mouth moving against hers, not until he pulled away suddenly, leaving her cold and bereft, even as she chased after his lips with hers.

"Now, now, Swan," he chided lightly, his forehead coming to rest against hers. "You promised you could handle it."

"And you said, you were a gentleman!" she countered, still trying to get her breath back.

"Aye," he replied with a wink, taking a step back to create some much-needed distance between them. "That I am. But I never said I was a bloody saint. Bathroom's on the left. Off you go," he said, giving her a little nudge towards the door. "Best make it a cold one, eh?"

* * *

As much as she hated being bested by Killian Jones, she had to admit, maybe she  _couldn't_  handle it. Which was why after her shower she'd lingered downstairs with a mug of hot cocoa Mary Margaret had insisted on making for her, and the woman herself, prattling on about snow days and standardized testing. Anything to distract her from thoughts of Killian in the shower, and the reasons he might be taking so long in there. So it was something of a relief when she finally stepped back into the guest room to find that, rather than being sprawled out on her bed as she expected, Killian had instead fashioned himself some kind of pillow fort at the foot of the bed with what looked to be the entire contents of the Nolan's linen closet.

"Looks cosy," she remarked, whilst fussing with the collar of the flannel pajamas Mary Margaret had loaned her, the tag scratching against her skin until she succeeded in ripping it out.

His dark head of hair, still damp from his shower, peeked out of the structure, his eyes squinting against the brightness from the overhead light as he grinned up at her. "Aye. Quite cosy indeed. Would you like to see, Swan?"

She did want to see. But after that filthy trick he'd pulled earlier, she regarded this offer with some healthy suspicion, crossing her arms over her chest skeptically.

"Shall we call a truce, then?" He asked, realizing the reason behind her hesitation. "On my honor, I'll behave myself if you will."

"You know, no matter how much flowery language you throw around, you still won't be a 17th century pirate, right?"

He pulled his hands to his chest in shock. "Am I not?" And then he crawled forward a little and offered out his hand.

"Do you wish to come aboard, m'lady?" he asked, his accent thickening with each word, smile growing wider when Emma rolled her eyes. But she took his hand anyway, and crawled inside the structure after him.

It wasn't the most stable set-up, the entire thing supported by a cairn of pillows at the center which could be toppled with one wrong move. But it was pretty decent for something that had taken him all of twenty minutes to set up.

"Welcome aboard, love. I call her:  _The Jolly Roger!_ " he announced, waving his hands around. "Where I shall make berth tonight."

"You're an idiot," she declared, but there was a hint of fondness to the words.

"That may be so, love, but this is my ship, and it's bad form to insult a captain on his own vessel," he pouted, reclining on a bed of cushions.

"Of course. How silly of me," Emma deadpanned. "However will I recover from this faux pas?"

He grinned wide. "Well, you could take a seat by the captain..." he said, patting a cushion beside him. She cast him a wary glance, but he just lifted a hand to cross over his heart, to say he would keep to his agreement.

With another roll of her eyes, she shifted over until she was balanced next to him, and after a brief moment's hesitation, laid down beside him. She gazed up where the brightness of the overhead light filtered through Egyptian cotton, and then she shuffled onto her side, so she was facing him, propped on her elbow.

"Hi," she said softly, after a few moments of silence.

"Hello, Emma," he replied, no trace of the 17th century buccaneer left in his accent as he turned his head to face her.

"This is one kickass little pillow fort you've got here," Emma admitted, stretching her toes out to brush against the pile of cushions that held up the exterior wall.

"I'm glad you approve," he said, his elbow softly grazing against her own in gratitude.

"Everything is going to be okay, right?" She asked suddenly, the question slipping so easily past everything in her that had been holding it in. "With August, I mean?"

A significant pause followed, which was telling in itself. She found her attention inexplicably drawn to the bobbing of his Adam's Apple, as he considered his response. "It's not an easy thing," he admitted slowly, as if wary of setting off her superpower by being too optimistic. "I'm not even sure yet who exactly is after him. Or how we're going to clear the debt. I can't exactly take twenty grand out of petty cash. Not with things as they are."

She made a soft hum in agreement. She'd seen the books, after all. Jones Investigations was barely breaking even as it was, without taking fiscally irresponsible brothers into account.

"Although," he began slowly, "I might have an idea."

"You have an idea?" She wasn't quite able to mask the naked desperation in her voice.

" _Might_ ," he emphasized, before resting his head back against his pillow. "Say, Swan, how well can you fake a Russian accent?"


	17. The Siren's Call

"How's that intonation coming along, Swan?" Killian asked, as he slid back into the driver's seat, slamming the door shut behind him. Emma just rolled her eyes, returning her focus to the video she was re-watching on his phone from the passenger seat, as out of the corner of her eye he set about rubbing his hands together, leaning down to blow some warmth back into them with his breath. She watched as the woman in the video, Ilonka, yelled at the person holding the camera, furious hand gestures accompanying her creative run of threats until the video suspiciously faded to black.

"She seems like fun," Emma deadpanned, shielding the screen from glare with her hand as she set the video to play again.

"Bit of a spitfire, that one. I thought it might help if you shared some commonalities. To really get into character, like." When she lifted her head to glance in his direction, he gave her a sly wink.

Emma didn't take the bait on that one, just swiped back her thumb to watch the video again, her mouth forming words along with the woman in the video.

"Ready?" Emma watched the video over one last time before she nodded, and went to accept the slip of paper Killian held out for her, with the number written on it. "You remember your lines?" he asked, pulling it away from her grasp at the last moment, an amused smile pulling at his lips.

"Da," she said between gritted teeth, snatching the paper from between his fingers. And taking a deep breath, she dialed.

She felt like an idiot as she recited her lines, the faux Muscovite accent tripping off her tongue thick enough to spread on toast. But if he noticed anything amiss, the guy on the other end of the phone didn't seem to let on. He seemed to accept  _Ilonka_ 's tirade with something like resignation, like it was all just part of job. Hell, maybe it was. And then he said the magic words. The words they had all been waiting for.  _"She's here."_

She ended the call as soon as she could without drawing too much attention, and then she turned back to Killian, who sat draped over the steering wheel like he was in the middle of a GQ photoshoot, a nevertheless expectant look on his face.

"She's there," Emma said finally, watching as his entire body relaxed beside her.

"Well, that certainly does make things much easier."

"I'm sure that was information you could've gleaned  _without_  me having to put on an amateurish Russian accent," Emma pointed out.

"Perhaps," he mused for a moment, "But it was definitely a turn on."

She just gave him and his wicked grin some major side-eye, and tossed his phone back into his lap. Perhaps a little harder than was  _strictly_  necessary, if the muttered curse which followed was any clue.

"So remind me. Your plan is seriously to walk right into the lair of one of Boston's most notorious criminals, and  _what?_  Bat your eyelashes at her?"

Killian just shrugged, tucking his phone back in his jeans pocket. "Is that worry I detect, Swan?"

"That depends," Emma hedged. " _Are you out of your fucking mind?!_  I worked the crime beat, remember? I  _know_  that Nika Orlova is a lot more than the sweet old florist she pretends to be."

"You needn't worry, love. Ms. Orlova and I go way back. I'm in no danger."

Emma snorted. "You go way back? You know you're talking about a woman the Russian community have taken to calling Baba Yaga, don't you? As in, the vicious hag from the fairy tales?"

"Come now, Swan. Fairy tales?" He gave her a chiding look. "I think you put too much stock in gossip. Besides," he said, straightening the cuffs of his jacket. "You're forgetting one very important detail."

"Oh yeah?" Emma asked, humoring him. "What's that?"

He just turned in his seat to grin at her, one hand raking back to ruffle his hair a little. "You said so yourself: I'm catnip for the over 60s."

* * *

So that was it. That was Killian's master plan. He was going to walk right into Orlova's Flowers & Gifts and get Baba Yaga herself to grant him a favor. Because he had an "in". And/or sex appeal.

_Oh yeah. No problems there._

Emma should have stopped him. She should have refused to impersonate Nika Orlova's niece on the phone. She should have done a lot of things, but chief among them was, she never should have let him crawl out of that pillow fort.

He'd been safe there, Emma waking in the small hours to the steady thrum of his heart beating against her palm, his every exhalation causing a strand of her hair to tickle over her face. That was probably what had woken her to begin with.

She hadn't meant to fall asleep in the fort. It rather defeated the purpose of his even needing to build it in the first place, a perfectly good double bed left wanting. Nor had she meant to wake up to discover that sometime during the night they'd become undeniably entangled, Emma head resting snugly into the crook of his shoulder, his arm wrapped securely around her, holding her in place. He'd probably have a nice case of dead arm when he woke up. Pins and needles for days.

It wasn't very platonic of her, cuddling up to Killian Jones in a goddamn pillow fort. Hell, it wasn't very Emma-like. She'd never exactly been the cuddling type, too used to her own space, too prone to hogging the covers. She could blame it on the weather, she supposed. Nothing inspired a bit of snuggling like a snowstorm outside. She could make any number of excuses. And if he'd been awake when she'd crawled out of that fort, maybe she would have tried a few on him. But the fact of the matter was, it was comfortable, being with him like that, soft conversation melting into peaceful slumber. Whether she'd meant to end up that way or not.

Sooner or later, Emma would have to stop to examine that realisation. If he didn't get himself killed by an aging  _Avtoritet_  of the Russian Mafia first, that is.

And despite his assurances, she couldn't deny that was a pressing concern. Especially as she sat waiting in his car, the engine still running to keep the heat on, the façade of the florist's shop into which he disappeared obscured by the fogged up windows. She'd wanted to go with him. As in, she really  _didn't_ want to go with him, because she wasn't a fucking idiot, and knew to stay far, far away from Russian mobsters, but she was also not all that eager to let him go in alone. He'd talked her down. Made some frustratingly good points. But when he handed over the keys to his baby, that's when she knew he was serious.

So she waited. In the car. Like a chump.

If she hadn't been so focused on the blurry outline of the door through which Killian had passed, maybe she would have noticed she wasn't the only interested party staking out Orlova's Flowers & Gifts. And maybe she would have seen the figure approaching before she heard the sharp rap of knuckles against the window right beside her, causing her to jolt in her seat as if she'd just been hooked up to a live car battery, adrenaline coursing through her.

Praying she wasn't asking for a handgun to the face, she slowly rolled down the window, until her eyes came level with a shiny belt buckle, feeling equal parts relief and dread. She recognised the figure, even before she looked into that disgruntled face. She'd bought him that belt buckle, last Christmas. A silver wolf motif, howling at the moon. She wasn't sure how she felt about the fact that he still wore it.

"Detective Humbert," she said, putting on that faux cheery tone that's employed against law enforcement the world over, and fools no one. "What a pleasant surprise."

_Fuck. Of all the florists in all of South Boston…_

"Emma," he responded, coolly, eyes tracing her face, and Emma had never been so thankful for the thick concealer Mary Margaret had dug out for her that morning, hiding the worst of her bruises. She wasn't in any mood to explain  _that_.

"Can I… help you?" She asked, feigning ignorance.

"Still palling around with Jones, I see," he said, gesturing at the vehicle with visible distaste. Which Emma thought was a little unwarranted, considering what an undeniably sexy automobile it was. A little respect wouldn't go astray.

"Yep," she said, taking a moment to surreptitiously scan the street in her mirror for Graham's partner. Two cars back, she spotted the dark sedan with the curiously conspicuous radio antenna, a figure slumped in the passenger seat. "He's still my boss."

Not that this was, technically speaking, a work assignment, but like hell she was going to tell him that.

"So you're on a case, then? Or is there some other reason you might be staking out Baba Yaga's shop in broad daylight?"

"Baba who?" She figured denial was worth a shot.

"Cut the shit, Emma. Yesterday Killian calls me out of the blue to intimidate some thug for him, and today he's having a sit down with Nika Orlova? Despite whatever the two of you might think, I'm not a fucking moron. So you can either tell me what is going on, or-"

"Or you'll what?" Emma's voice was stronger now, finding herself back on solid ground. "Are you  _really_ about to threaten to hold me over some trumped up charge if I don't tell you everything about Killian's flower preferences? Is that seriously where we are right now?" She pulled out her phone, out of habit, if anything, and had her thumb hovering over the button. "Can I get that on tape?"

She was good at this, talking circles around police officers. And by the clench of jaw, he was remembering that fact all too clearly.

"Emma," he tried again, his voice losing some of that earlier antagonism, eyes filling with concern. "I'm not trying to start a fight with you. I'm worried for you. For Killian. Can you honestly tell me I have no reason to be?"

She caught a glimmer of it then, how things had been with them before all the hurt and recriminations. Before Emma had thrown him under the bus. The guy who'd taken her on her first ever camping trip. They guy who'd carried her a two whole miles back to his truck without complaint after she'd rolled her ankle walking across a slippery log, and ruined the whole thing. Emma was good at that, ruining things.

The truth was, underneath that pretty face and excellent profile, there was a wellspring of decency in that man. And that was the problem. He was hands down the nicest guy she'd ever dated. He was hot. He had a good job, a meaningful job. He had a good relationship with his parents, and no obvious chemical dependencies. No matter which way you sliced it, he was a catch.

And yet, Emma had never really gotten comfortable. She'd never really let him in. She'd sabotaged it all, rather than admit the truth, that things had gotten too serious, too fast. That she couldn't ever see herself slipping into the role he'd cast for her in his plans for the future. It wasn't his fault. He'd been great, more than great. It was her. She wasn't enough for him. Couldn't be. So she did what she did best, she ruined things. A clean break, where she emerged the clear villain of the piece. Where he would never have to think that he'd been somehow lacking.

It hurt that even now she couldn't be honest with him, for his own good. She opened her mouth, her next lie on the tip of her tongue when Killian emerged from the florist's main entrance, and Emma sat forward at once, tugging Graham's attention away from her to where her employer stood on the sidewalk pulling his beanie down below his ears, a long, slender box tucked under one elbow. If he seemed surprised to see Graham leaning against his car, he didn't show it, whistling a jaunty tune as he hopped the curb to approach him.

"Didn't expect to see you out and about, Humbert," he said breezily, coming to stand beside him, boots stamping against the concrete to combat the chill.

"Saw your wheels on my way back to the station. Thought I should check in… after yesterday." His tone was pointed, and Emma couldn't help noticing Killian had left a little something out of his recount of yesterday's events.

"Ah," Killian frowned slightly. " _That_. Sorry to say, one of my clients has been on the receiving end of some rather aggressive offers to sell his home off to a developer, eager to bulldoze his whole block and put up a high rise. Apparently they've taken issue with that, sending a few unsavory types his way to…  _sway his decision_. I'm sorry I put you on the spot like that, but I appreciate you playing along. If it helps, I think it went a long way to getting them to back off."

Emma had to give credit where credit was due. It was a hell of a cover story, delivered with just the right amount of world-weariness and underlying flattery.

"Right," Graham nodded, absorbing Killian's explanation with an unmoved expression. "So, what's in the box?"

"Hmm?" Killian asked absently, as if distracted.

"The box?" Graham repeated, "The one you're holding?"

Emma hoped to God he hadn't been stupid enough to put anything incriminating in there after his audience with Orlova.

"Oh," Killian chuckled, pulling it out from under his arm. "Well..." He gave a somewhat bashful grin. "If you must know, it's a gift for the Lady Swan."

And with that he removed the shiny silver lid and plucked a single long-stemmed red rose from a nest of tissue paper, holding it experimentally towards the open window. "M'lady," he bowed in an overly dramatic fashion, brandishing the flower towards her.

She raised an eyebrow at the theatrics, but with Graham's cool gaze still on her so she took it with only a grateful nod, holding it to her nose to inhale its sweet scent.

"You give all your employees flowers, Jones?" Graham asked, clearly not appreciating their little pantomime.

Killian cocked his head to the side, as if considering the question. "It certainly appears so. But if you were ever to give up your high-flying career in the public service and come and work for me, I'm sure you'd earn a bouquet or two yourself," he winked.

Graham grumbled under his breath then, and turned to look back to the car where his partner was now leaning out of the window, tapping his watch meaningfully.

"Looks like your services are required elsewhere, Detective," Emma said, as she clambered over the gearshift and back into the passenger seat, allowing Killian to open the door and slide right into the driver's seat. "As are ours."

Graham looked back at them then, as they buckled their seat belts with eerie unison, and gave a weary sigh. "Whatever you two are up to, I hope you know what you are doing," he said darkly.

"Always a pleasure, Humbert," Killian nodded, winding up the window, before turning the engine over and peeled out of their parking space and away from Graham's watchful stare.

* * *

"He's onto us," Emma pointed out, as they wended their way South on Dorchester Avenue.

"He doesn't have anything," Killian replied. "Just coincidence and a bad feeling in his gut. He's too good of a detective to rely on that alone."

"Okay," she said, deciding to drop it for now. She knew better though, knew that sometimes a gut feeling was enough. "So what do  _we_ have?" she asked, rolling the stem of the rose between her fingers. "And how did you know to go to Baba Yaga to get it?"

With little warning, Killian pulled right, into the tiny parking lot of a Vietnamese Grocery Store, killing the engine.

"Sorry," he said, when he saw Emma rub the spot at her collarbone where her seat belt had dug into her skin. "I thought it would be better if we had this conversation while I wasn't driving."

"Alright," she agreed, still rubbing the tender spot. "So start talking."

He leaned forward to pick up the rose from where Emma had dropped it onto the dash, and held it back out to her to take. "When I said Nika Orlova and I go way back, it wasn't an entirely idle claim." Emma took the proffered rose again, and nodded. Her superpower had told her as much. "When I dropped out of law school, I had a couple of odd jobs before I started on the whole private detection thing. One of those jobs was as an apprentice florist..."

"You  _worked_ for Baba Yaga?"

"Aye. Only with the legitimate side of the business, I should stress. Don't laugh, but it turns out I had a bit of a knack for the florist trade. Attention to detail. Not entirely devoid of good taste. And the women who came into the shop used to like me."

Emma could quite suppress her snort, though she did try to muffle it with her sleeve.  _She bet they did._

He gave her a warning glance, but continued anyway. "Needless to say, it never really worked out. There was clearly more to the shop than meets the eye, and I wasn't wholly comfortable with that. Moreover, some of her subordinates seemed to be rather suspicious of me, of my law background. Thought maybe I was an undercover police officer or something. Orlova never believed that, though. She liked me. I could tell. Even when I told her I was quitting. I wasn't entirely sure she would help me, but I thought it was a pretty good bet, if I could get to her without too many of her lackeys around."

A sudden realization struck Emma. "That's why you made me make the call."

"Aye."

"The rose was a nice touch," Emma said, as she twirled it in front of her. "Standard operating procedure?"

"Would have looked a tad suspicious leaving empty-handed. The place is always under some kind of surveillance. Not that I exactly expected your ex to be waiting outside..."

She felt it then, the little prick of her internal lie detector, taking issue with his phrasing.

He'd seen Graham alright, before he'd left the store. He'd been too cool in his approach. Too laid back. And somehow Emma doubted that his choice of flower had been an entirely innocuous choice. A single red rose. A romantic gesture, if there ever was one. No matter his claims of innocence, he'd  _meant_ to provoke Graham. Even if only in payback for the awkward hallway incident back at Finnegan's.

She didn't correct his version of events, though she did file it away for later, nodding for him to continue.

"If you'll recall, August mentioned that the guy he originally owed died in a boating accident some weeks back. Turns out that kind of thing doesn't really go unnoticed in certain circles. And word on the street is, his son orchestrated his father's death in order to inherit his criminal enterprise."

Patricide, Emma thought.  _Classy._

"If you like that, you haven't even heard the kicker. Rumor has it he instigated this little coup at the urging of his new girlfriend. Who you might recognize from some of her earlier work."

He pulled out his phone and held the screen up in front of her face. It was an online news article, she realized, from the Sentinel.  _Son Cleared of Suspicion in Father's Drowning,_ the headline screamed. And below that, a picture of a man exiting court, his jacket pulled up to obscure most of his face. And trailing behind him, their hands clasped in a clear sign of unity, was none other than Ariel. Killian's former assistant.

 _That_ Ariel.

"You've got to be shitting me."


	18. Just A Little Peril

Ah, Ariel. From lackluster office administrator, to corporate spy, to the aspiring first lady of the criminal underworld.

Emma had to admit, it was quite a leap for anyone to make, least of all the girl who'd sat at her desk for the last five years, filling out crossword puzzles and getting Killian his coffee. Now she was starting to think he was lucky the girl hadn't decided to stir a little strychnine in there as well, for good measure.

"You have to hand it to the lass," Killian said with a begrudging smile. "She's certainly ambitious."

Emma scoffed at him. "Ambitious is  _not_  the word I would use. Dangerous, maybe. I mean,  _how_?"

"You mean, how can a girl go from idealistic college grad with suspected flower child leanings, to  _that?"_ He pointed back down at Ariel's picture on his phone, and shrugged. "I admit, my line of work hardly brings out the best in people, but I don't think I can entirely take credit for that transformation, Swan."

"No," said Emma, shaking her head. "I mean, how do you convince your boyfriend to kill his own father? I get being whipped. I get being suggestible. I've played that card. But this, it's a whole other layer of manipulation."

"Well, that depends," Killian began, something darker creeping into his tone. "Not all fathers are shiny beacons of parenthood, love. By all accounts the man was no saint. He  _was_ the head of a small but successful criminal enterprise, after all. It wouldn't exactly be hard to imagine his having a difficult relationship with his son. A man like that... Ariel probably only had to nudge him in the right direction."

His words smacked of bitterness, bringing a lump to Emma's throat. Sure, she'd had plenty of crappy father figures in her life, that was true. Neglectful, mean, sometimes downright dangerous foster fathers. But they were none of them her actual Dad, whoever he'd been. He probably never even knew Emma existed. But Killian's father? His real father? He'd been a real piece of work.

Unbeknownst to Killian, Emma had tracked him down once, curiosity getting the better of her.  _Brennan Jones._ She never quite managed to pin him to any one location, but he'd certainly left a trail. Outstanding warrants and unpaid debts all across the United Kingdom. Some in Spain. Portugal. Even Ireland for a bit. Emma wasn't sure which was worse; never having father, or having a rat bastard for one. Sometimes she suspected the latter.

"Okay, fine," Emma said, trying to change tack. "Ariel maybe does not actually possess magical sex powers that turn men's brains to mush. That's good to know. What would be  _better_  to know is where we can find her."

"That might be a little difficult, Swan."

"How is it difficult? We know who her associates are now. I doubt very much her boyfriend's usual hangouts aren't common knowledge. Hell, Graham probably has a fat file sitting on his desk right now, with this very information inside. We pay a visit to his usual haunts. We find Ariel, and then we can trade. August's debt, for not going to the cops about what she did to Jones Investigations. It's a slam dunk."

Killian looked bemused by her basketball reference, but he didn't seem as excited as Emma was. Hell, maybe this would all work out. After all, they  _had_ something on Ariel. Even if they never made the charges stick, they could still drag her to court over industrial espionage. Taking off with most of Killian's confidential client files and selling them on to the highest bidder hadn't exactly been on the up and up.

"No, seriously, what's the problem?" Emma asked, when Killian expression still remained pensive. "Because this kinda seems like good news to me."

"Aye," he said, one hand carding through his hair. "Good news with only one teeny, tiny hiccup."

"Hiccup?"

"She's expecting us. Whatever else she is, Ariel isn't stupid. I think that's become abundantly clear. She knows what August means to me. By now she surely knows that I intervened yesterday when her  _associate_  came to call on him. I'd wager there would be a veritable phalanx of armed tough guys standing between her and us now. We'd never get close enough to make a deal. And even if we did, there's no inducement for her to accept it. Either way, she loses out. Loses what August owes, or loses whatever a lengthy court battle might cost her. It'd be much easier for her to just... silence us and be done with it. That way she still gets everything she wants."

Emma hadn't considered it quite like that. She hadn't considered that their lives might actually be in danger. But now that she had, she felt a cold shiver run up her spine. A creeping coldness that faded when Killian's gloved hand suddenly clasped her own, his thumb tracing gentle circles into the back of her hand.

"It won't come to that, Swan. You know I won't let it." She glanced up at him then, at the warm certainty in those blue eyes.

"You won't let it, huh?"

Like he had some say in the matter. Like this wasn't all a crapshoot where one wrong move might actually get them killed.

"Aye," he replied, his grip on her hand tightening. "I won't let it."

It wasn't a lie. But neither was it a promise he could deliver on.

"Killian..." She leaned forward then, bracing her other hand on his shoulder, drawing him in. He was much closer now, they were practically nose to nose. It had only been two days, and already she could feel that familiar temptation to close the gap between them, to lose herself in the certainty of his kiss, in the warm safety of his arms.

She didn't want to die. She especially didn't want to die in service of expunging her brother's idiotic debts. August probably wouldn't take it all that well if she did. The guilt and all, eating him up from the inside out. Graham probably wouldn't mind. Hell, he might even be secretly pleased to see the last of her. No one else would really care. Not really. Just Killian.

Killian. The very man whose heart she could feel thrumming in his chest, as her hand trailed downwards. It was reassuring to feel the beat of it under her fingers, just as it had been last night, reminding her that he was still there. That he was with her. That he was safe. The same man who then reached up and closed his other hand around hers, holding it still to his chest.

 _Fuck it._  If they were going to die for something stupid, she might as well be honest.

"It meant something," she blurted out, out of nowhere. And when she saw his face screw up adorably in confusion at her sudden words, she pressed on, in a predictably awkward ramble. "Sleeping with you. And  _sleeping with you._ It meant something. To me.  _You_  mean something to me."

He didn't say anything at first, just let his mouth fall open a bit, Emma wondering if she'd broken him. If she'd broken  _them._

"This would be a really good time for you to make with the words..." Emma prodded, nudging him a little where their hands were still clasped at his chest. He seemed to awake to himself then, closing his mouth and blinking a few times.

"Err..." he began, the beginnings of a smile forming on his lips. "Something?" he prompted, one eyebrow raising as if of its own accord.

The sight of that stupid eyebrow was enough for Emma to feel the knot in her stomach starting to unfurl. Enough to give her a little hope.

"A lot," Emma clarified, though the bastard hardly deserved it, with the wicked smirk he was starting to sport.

"A lot?" He repeated, cheekily.

"A little less now you're being such an ass about it!" But her frown didn't last long. Not with the way Killian leaned forward, and met her lips with his own. Not with the way he smiled against her lips as he pulled away, his eyes shining brighter than she'd ever seen.

"I'm guessing that means it's mutual...?" Sure, she was fishing. But since all he was doing was grinning like a lunatic, she figured she had a right.

"Christ, Swan. Yes! It's mutual! I know I can be a grumpy git sometimes, but I'm bloody mad about you. I don't know when the fuck that happened exactly, but it did. And I know the timing is..."

"The worst?" Emma supplied.

"Aye. That'll do. Bloody awful timing. Everything is a fucking mess, including us. But I do want this. With you. I want..." He trailed off, searching for the right words.

"Sex?" Emma teased.

A dark chuckle. "I think that goes without saying. I've been having the most delightful flashbacks these past two days, but they really don't quite live up to the reality. But I'm a greedy man, Swan. And I'm sorry to say that I want far more than that from you."

"Oh?"

"Aye," he breathed, closing the distance between them again to trap her lips in a bruising kiss. One which came to an abrupt end when a passer-by knocked on the window and started yelling at them in what seemed to be rapid-fire Vietnamese, the two of them untangling in a hurry back into their respective seats, each trying their best not to laugh too hard.

"Busted," Emma said, as she set about fixing her hair where Killian's fingers had tangled it.

"Worth it," Killian grinned back, his own hair looking a little worse for wear.

"I guess that wouldn't be so bad," Emma admitted shyly, gaze drawn to the window, watching the man who'd yelled at them disappear out of sight between a row of cars in the lot. "Having something with you. Having more with you."

"Wouldn't be so bad?" he repeated, in an incredulous voice.

She just rolled her eyes, until a flicker of red caught at the corner of her eye, drawing her attention back inside the car. The rose. Her rose. Killian had picked it up from wherever it had fallen, and was holding it out to her now, in a very different way than he had earlier. It wasn't a ruse anymore. If it had even been one at all. Now, with that look in his eye, she saw it for what it really was. A promise.

"You won't let it come to that?" Emma repeated his earlier words.

"I won't let it come to that. We're going to approach this intelligently. Strategically. And no one is going to get hurt. Not you. Not me. Not August." His eyes crinkled a little in the corners, when he smiled at her. "Especially not now I have so much to look forward to."

"You have an idea?" she asked, hand stretching out towards the bloom.

"Aye, I have an idea."

She took the flower.

* * *

Whatever Emma thought Killian's plans might be, she hadn't anticipated they might include bluffing their way through the labyrinthine hallways of a downtown law firm, dodging interns wheeling around carts stacked high with books. And yet there they were, on the 16th floor, searching out a very specific office. Killian was the one who knocked.

"If you think I'm babysitting your dog again, you've come to the wrong-" Her opening volley trailed off immediately when Killian pushed the door open wider to reveal Emma standing at his side, their hands entwined.

Whatever Emma thought Tink's reaction to this news might be, it wasn't what she got. Which was a a rather loud squeal of excitement, as Tink launched herself at Killian, enveloping him in a rather fierce looking hug. And then, much to her consternation, followed it up by hugging Emma herself, who could do little more than wait for it to pass, her arms trapped at her sides. She shot Killian a look, but he seemed to be too busy laughing at her expense.

Having apparently gotten all of her boa-constrictor urges out of her system, Tink at last stepped back, fixing Killian with a sly smile. " _Oh yeah_. Not your type  _at all_."

"Fuck off," was his elegant reply, giving Emma's hand a reassuring squeeze.

The exchange between Killian and Tink was friendly. It was fond. And more than that, it made all her imaginings about how  _drinks_  might have gone down between the two of them seem kind of ridiculous.

"Hang on," Emma said, putting up a hand, "You guys have... talked about this?"

"Well," Tink shrugged. " _I_   talked.  _He_  pretended I didn't know what I was talking about. But obviously..." She motioned between the two of them, "I'm always right."

And modest too, Emma thought with amusement, as the smaller woman finally stepped back to let them into the office, securing the door.

"So," she said, taking a perch on the edge of her desk. "As much as you know I'm thrilled you two knuckleheads have made things official, I don't think that's what dragged you all the way up here to the 16th floor. So, what is it? I meant it about the dogsitting. I am  _done_ with that little monster."

Emma felt Killian bristle beside her, but she just rolled her eyes.

"Smee's with Killian's downstairs neighbor today," she cut in. "Your throw rugs are safe. We were hoping you could do a favor for us though..."

Tink gave an eye roll of her own, fixing her attention squarely on Killian, arms folding over her chest. "A favor?"

"Aye. I'd like to sue someone. I hear that's right up your street."


	19. The Eye Of The Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Angst Alert

"You're... sure you want to do this?" Tink asked, for what Emma was pretty sure was the tenth time in the last hour.

Again it was Killian who responded, with a weary wave of his hand. "Aye, love. We're sure. How long until she gets the papers?"

Tink frowned, consulting her smartphone. "Assuming my guy can get to her, as early as today. Though it might help if you give him somewhere to start looking..."

Emma reached over and grabbed a pen and yellow legal pad off the desk, leaning over to scribble something down. "Here," she said, tearing off the page and sliding it over to her.

"Sebastian's? The Italian place over by the marina?" Tink turned to face Killian, one eyebrow raised. "Didn't you take me there for our anniversary one year?"

Killian grumbled something indistinctly then, his gaze fixed deliberately to the carpet, ears already turning pink.

"It's been in her boyfriend's family for generations," Emma cut in, saving him from the smaller woman's scrutiny. "A legitimate family business, doubling as a laundromat for all that dirty Cosa Nostra money. It's also seems to be the base of their operations, if the amount of times the FBI have tried and failed to get wiretaps on the place is any indication."

It was Emma that Tink turned to next, her eyes narrowing. "And how do you know that?"

Emma shrugged casually. "I made a few calls in the car on the way over."

"That Detective Guy?" She asked with more interest, leaning forward slightly. "The one whose heart you ripped out?"

Emma opened her mouth to make a haughty reply, but the phone on Tink's desk began to trill, and the smaller woman swooped on it, effectively ending the interrogation.

Now it was Emma's turn to fix Killian with an exasperated look. " _Seriously?_ " she hissed. "Do you guys talk about  _all_  the stupid shit I do?"

He straightened then from where he was leaning on a file cabinet and took a few steps forward, wrapping an arm around her waist, bringing Emma in close. "Of course not, Swan," he whispered in her ear, leaning over to place a small, consolatory kiss on her cheek. "Just the highlights." She could feel his smile against her skin as he kissed her again, this time at the juncture of her throat, causing her brain to short-circuit a little, and forget she was ever going to elbow him in the kidneys.

Mostly.

At the sound of a throat clearing, Emma froze, temporarily forgetting they had an audience. But instead of stepping away, Killian's grip tightened, and she buried her head into the crook of his shoulder, letting her hair obscure most of her burning cheeks from Tink's gaze.

"Not that this isn't adorable," Tink said, waving her hand between the two of them. "And god knows, I ship it. But if you could keep it in your pants long enough to sign on the dotted line..." she trailed off, holding a fancy pen out to Killian, "That would be great. I have actual paying clients on their way up."

"You'll be sure to call as soon as she's served?" Killian asked, stepping away from Emma to take hold of the pen.

"Of course. But are you still not going to tell me  _why_ the timing matters so much to you?"

There was a pregnant pause whilst Killian signed the papers before him with a flourish, holding out the pen for Tink to take. But she didn't take it, not at first. She was too busy staring him down, arms crossed over her chest.

He seemed to visibly shrink a little under the weight of her scrutiny. "It's best if you don't know, love."

"Oh yeah,  _that's_  reassuring," she snarked, taking the pen from his grasp in a none-too-gentle move.

"It'll be fine."

"It  _better_ be," Tink huffed. "Or I'll kill you myself."

His lips quirked into a smile then. "Are you worried about me, lass?"

Instead of denying that charge, Tink just gathered the coat he'd left draped over one of the visitor's chairs and threw it in his direction. "Get out. Both of you. I'll call you when I know more."

Emma, who'd been watching this exchange closely, stepped forward to retrieve her own jacket, taking a moment to meet Tink's eye. "Thank you for doing this. Really."

A small grumble from the lawyer. "Just don't let him do anything stupid, okay?"

Emma turned back to see Killian waiting for her by the door, tapping his foot impatiently. "Yeah," she said quietly. "I'll do my best."

* * *

"You could have just told her, you know." Emma ventured, once they'd finally returned to the apartment. It looked no worse for being abandoned, though there was a unpleasant funk emanating from the refrigerator as Emma searched fruitlessly for something to eat that wasn't past it's expiration date. Killian, in turn, was knelt on the rug beside his excitable canine companion, who had greeted him back with all the enthusiasm of a long lost lover returned from the war.

"Swan..." He sighed.

"I mean, she  _is_ a lawyer," Emma said, pulling two beers out of the vegetable crisper in defeat, and closing the refrigerator. "She's not exactly going to shoot her mouth off. And she cares about you. That much is obvious."

Killian's eyes narrowed, even as his fingers scratched Smee's belly. "If this is you working up to asking me if I still have feelings for Tink-"

"I'm not," Emma cut in, taking a seat on the rug beside him, placing a bottle of beer next to him. "This isn't about me being threatened by Tink. I  _like_  that you have people around you who care about you. Hell, she's probably been there for you more than I have lately, all things considered," she muttered between sips. "All  _I've_ done is bring more drama into your life."

Killian snorted, as if in disbelief. "You know that's not true."

"Really?" Emma pushed. "What with me sponging off you these last few months? Getting into fist-fights with clients? Having an idiot for a brother?" R _unning away when things get too much._ She didn't say the last bit, but she still felt the unsaid words trapped in the air between them.

"If it weren't for you, the business would have gone under months ago.  _You_ saved it," he reminded her.

"I'd hardly call placing a few ads and setting up a website an act of heroism," Emma mumbled, taking another swig from her bottle. "The fact is, I'm not sure... I've been good for you."

"Good for me?" He repeated, dumbfounded. "Emma?" He leaned forward slowly, gently prying the beer bottle from her hands and placing it down on the coffee table, eyes returning to search her face carefully for clues. "Where's this coming from?" he asked gently.

He reached for her hand, but Emma shrugged it off. The truth was, she didn't want his comfort for this part. She didn't deserve it. If Killian thought this was coming out of left field, that was on her. She should have been honest with him from the start. She definitely shouldn't have let herself get carried away, thinking that just because being with him was easy, that it was the right thing.

It had taken watching his interactions with Tink to remind her. It had taken watching the way Tink fussed and worried over him. Not because Emma was jealous. Sure, it wasn't  _ideal_ that Killian and his ex were so close, but she couldn't, wouldn't begrudge him that. It was more that Tink was  _right_ to worry.

Their plan was far from solid, and she knew the only reason he was even considering it was because of her. August would have probably been halfway to Utah on a Greyhound by now, if Killian had had his way. But he also knew Emma. He knew she wouldn't be willingly separated from her brother without a fight. So he'd come up with another plan. A far riskier one. And for what? Just to make Emma happy?

"I'm not saying I regret... whatever this is," she said, her hand tracing back and forth between them. "It's not that I don't care about you." Her eyes flicked back up to his. "I  _do_  care about you. But you were also right before, what you said about this being bad timing."

"Are you worried that the plan won't work?" He asked, clearly confused at the sudden about-face. "Darling, if that's your concern-"

"I didn't go down the fire escape because I was freaking out about having slept with you!" Emma shouted suddenly, her words overriding his. "I mean," she amended, her tone a little less urgent, "I  _was_ freaking out, because that's just what I do. But that isn't the reason I ran."

He blinked, absorbing that. "Okay... So why did you?"

Emma took a moment. Just a moment, to enjoy her last bit of ignorance, hugging her knees to her chest.

"I thought you might still be in love with Milah."

The words flew from her lips like a volley of arrows, and if Killian's response was any indication, then they'd hit their mark. His hand hovering near her arm was gone in an instant, as he withdrew into himself. And the look on his face? It damn near finished her off. Those shining blue eyes, usually striking just the right balance between warm and teasing, now reflected back hurt. A veritable fuck-load of hurt.

"Emma-"

"Am I wrong?"

The pause was too long for an outright denial. Not that she expected one, but she still felt the knot form in her throat all the same.

"I'm not an idiot, Killian. I do occasionally pick up on things. Like how crabby you get when certain cases strike a little too close to home? Or that time you came home reeking of smoke and gasoline?"

"You need to understand, Milah was..." He swallowed thickly. "Milah's a wound. She's a wound that won't stop fucking bleeding, but that's _all_  she is."

"And you're not over her," Emma finished for him.

"It's really not that simple, love."

"Are you sure? Because I'm starting to wonder if maybe the reason we got so close, so fast, is because she left this gaping hole in your life, and I came along and filled it."

Killian's eyes widened. " _You think you're a rebound?_ " he spluttered.

Emma searched carefully for her next words. "I'm not saying you did anything wrong. If anything, I'm the one who started things. I'm saying... maybe we should slow things down, until you're sure?"  _Maybe get him to re-examine his priorities._

"Bloody hell, Swan. This isn't some kind of Psych 101 transference rubbish. I didn't fall for you because you just so happened to be the next woman to show up in my bloody flat!" He was getting angry now. The earlier disbelief giving way to something rawer. Something darker. Something which spurred Emma's knee-jerk reaction.

"No? Then tell me about the bassinet. The one in my closet?"

She might as well have sucker punched him, the way his eyes glazed over entirely, the way the color drained from his face. She hadn't meant to say it. Not really. It had just… slipped out. Tripping people up with the tricky questions was kind of her thing. Had been her thing. And sometimes she forgot to turn it off. If she even knew how to turn it off.

Without warning, he leaned forward and brought one hand to the back of Emma's neck, claiming her lips with his own. It wasn't like any kiss they'd shared before. Not lustful, or sweet. It certainly wasn't sweet. The intensity of it was startling, because for once, he wasn't holding back a thing. She could feel it all. Every bit of pain and anger and frustration. Every bit of disappointment and sorrow. His attentions were bruising, leaving her little choice but to grasp onto his shoulders for support, to ride out the storm. Because that's what it was really. Not a kiss so much as a tempest, and he aimed to drown himself.

Their sudden movements had startled Smee, sending him into another round of hysterical yips. It was enough to bring Emma back from the brink, back to the reality of the situation. She pulled away then, leveraging herself against his shoulders until they broke apart. His lips chased hers, wanting more, but she put a hand on his chest, holding him at bay.

"Killian," she said, a little out of breath. He glanced at her, but the look is his eyes was off. "Hey," she tried again, firmer this time, one hand coming up to trace the contour of his cheek. "You with me, Jones?"

He seemed to come back to himself then with a sudden self-awareness, springing backwards as if he'd been burned, letting out a litany of curses.

"I'm sorry, Emma. I shouldn't have-." He buried his face in his palms. "Christ, I'm sorry." The look he shot her was distraught, like self-flagellation would be taking place any moment.

"Hey, it's alright," Emma said, holding her hands up to show that everything was fine. "It's okay."

"It's not bloody okay, Emma!" He shouted, his words reverberating between them loud enough to send Smee darting under the couch to hide. He didn't much resemble the man that she knew in that moment. Pupils still blown back, his chest heaving, cheeks flushed red. Normally Emma might appreciate that kind of view, the sight of the man so wrecked. But not like this. It wasn't the same.

"Hey," she repeated in that same soothing tone, scooting closer. "C'mere," she said, keeping her voice low and level, holding out a hand to him.

He didn't move at first, merely glanced at her outstretched hand and looked away, like he didn't have a right to look at it.

"Killian Jones, get your ass over here!" He responded to that at least, swivelling around to face her properly again.

"Emma, I-" But Emma didn't let him finish this time, reaching down to grasp his hand in hers and pulling him forward into a hug.

She had kind of tricked him into it, but once he relaxed into her arms, she knew she'd done the right thing. She rested her head on his shoulder, content to let him stay like that for as long as he needed.

"Are you going to leave?" he mumbled into the fabric of her shirt.

"Do you want me to leave?" Emma asked, pulling back a little to gauge his expression.

"No." And whatever else, he meant it.

She squeezed her arms tighter around him. "Then, I won't."

* * *

Emma wasn't sure how long they stayed like that. Long enough for some serious muscle cramp to set in. Getting up to switch on the coffee pot had been rather on the painful side, as she limped her way into the kitchen. Her discomfort was so that she hadn't noticed Killian leaving his spot by the couch until she heard the tell-tale scrape of something heavy dragged across linoleum.

"Killian?" she asked. "What the hell?"

And then he rounded the corner, dragging the box along with him. The same box Emma hadn't seen since before her trip down the fire escape.

"You wanted to know, right?" Killian asked, standing upright, a little breathless.

"I..." Emma began, momentarily stunned. "I mean, if you want to tell me, yeah." She glanced around, searching for somewhere to have that particular discussion. "Should we sit?" She asked, motioning to the small dining set.

But Killian just shook his head, motioning at the box with his chin.

"I bought it for my son."

Emma had suspected as much. But suspecting wasn't the same as knowing. It might as well as been a punch in the throat, because she couldn't get any words out. Not that it mattered, since Killian, evidently having decided on the Band-Aid approach to this confessional, barrelled on.

"I bought it for who I  _thought_  was my son. It later transpired that wasn't the case. Milah was pregnant, see?" When he looked up, Emma could see the tears shining in his eyes, threatening to fall.

"We'd argued about it a fair bit. Starting a family. She was older than me, I thought maybe it would be better if we didn't wait. Before the choice was taken out of our hands. But she didn't agree. Jones Investigations was barely breaking even. Her job at the gallery wasn't all that certain. She wanted to wait until we were more settled. Until we were more secure. She got me the bloody dog to distract me from the idea, I think. We fought about it a lot, come to think of it. Money. Bills. Stupid things like that."

Emma took a step forward, intending to catch his hand in hers but he pulled away a little, folding his arms over his chest. The look he shot her was almost pleading, willing her to understand. With a nod, she stepped back, letting him continue.

"So when she  _did_ fall pregnant, it was a bit of a shock. We hadn't been doing that well, really. There were a couple of weeks when she'd gone to stay with friends, because we just couldn't seem to agree on anything. I thought that... I thought that the baby meant an end to all that. I thought we were finally on the same page."

A stray tear streaked down one cheek, and Killian turned away slightly, the heel of his hand brushing away the evidence. "I was excited. Terrified too, but mostly excited. It was very early in, but I was already making plans. I went down to Target and got way too many things. I even painted the bloody nursery. I was sure it was going to be a boy. Absolutely certain of it."

"It  _was_  a boy, it turned out. I found the birth announcement in the paper a few months ago. So I was right. Just not about it being mine."

Emma bit her lip, to prevent a sob of her own from escaping, her heart breaking for him. She  _knew_  things had been ugly. She'd pictured a few awful scenarios. But this? This was painful beyond belief.

"Turns out she hadn't been staying with friends, so much as with her ex-husband. Fairly wealthy fellow. Old money, you know? By all accounts, their marriage hadn't been the greatest. After all, she'd left him for me in the first place. Did August ever tell you that?" he asked suddenly, losing his train of thought. August _had_  mentioned it, actually. A juicy piece of gossip shared over one too many beers at the Rabbit Hole. It didn't seem so entertaining now. "Anyway, I suppose that when we started having all our fights about money, the grass seemed a little greener with him. I don't think she intended to leave me for good. After all, she came back. Just like I don't think she meant to get pregnant by him."

"She knew he wasn't mine. Managed to count back the days. I had no idea, living in my little bubble of happiness. She did tell me, eventually. Came home to find her crying her eyes out on the couch with Smee. Said she couldn't lie to me anymore. You know I wasn't even angry?" he said, with a measure of disbelief. "Not really. I told her it didn't matter, that I'd raise him anyway. He'd still be  _ours._ "

"She left the next day, while I was at work. Took all her stuff in the middle of the day. Left me a note. She'd gone back to him. Her ex-husband. Said he deserved the chance to be a proper father. That he would take care of them." His voice cracked then, and Emma wasn't sure if he would keep it together much longer. "God, I'd never felt so useless in my entire fucking life."

Emma couldn't contain herself any longer than that, taking those precious steps forward to wrap him in her arms. He didn't pull away this time, hugging her back fiercely, until she seemed certain he could stand on his own two feet.

"Thank you," she said. "For telling me."

"I would have rathered you stayed in blissful ignorance," he remarked dryly, rubbing at his face again. "But that's the thing about you reporter types. Always so goddamn relentless." He was trying for levity, but he didn't quite get there.

"I meant what I said, about slowing down," Emma began, gently. "I think it's a good idea. At least until the wounds aren't so fresh."

He didn't argue this time, just nodded solemnly. "Alright. If that's what you want."

"It is," Emma said, firmly.

"I'm still mad about you, though," he added, with a touch of cheek. "Just, so you know."

Emma smiled despite herself. "Good."

He opened his mouth to say something else, but was drowned out by the sounds emanating from his cell phone as it buzzed in his jeans pocket.

" _I Fought The Law_?" Emma asked with raised brows, as he drew it out. "Really?"

He just winked, and took the call.

"You've news for me, lass?"


	20. A Thief And A Lawyer

Emma could admit there was a certain amount of stupid optimism in Killian's plan. After all, they were talking about antagonizing a woman who'd chosen Niccolo Machiavelli as her personal life coach. Talk about poking the bear. At best, Ariel was a highly motivated career criminal on her way up the food chain. At worst, she was an accessory to murder, and not opposed to more of the same.

"She might not show..." Emma hedged, watching as Killian paced back and forth in front of her desk for maybe the zillionth time. "Maybe she's running late for her super villain spin class?"

There was the hint of a smile in response, but he didn't stop with his treading a definite path into the carpet. "No," he said, glancing at the clock again. "She'll be here. No question."

Well. Emma was glad  _he_  was so sure. But would it have killed them to set a time? All the pacing and coffee drinking, well, it wasn't exactly doing wonders for Emma's growing anxiety. And she needed to go to the bathroom.

They'd decamped to the office shortly after Tink's call to wait on Ariel's response. Neither of them acknowledged it aloud but they both knew why. Worst case scenario, there wouldn't be any innocent bystanders.

Not that getting killed was the plan. It was decidedly  _not_ the plan. That was why they'd filed the papers after all. It was now a matter of public record that Jones Investigations was suing Ariel Roberts for a princely sum, as restitution for the theft of confidential client files.

Sure, Ariel  _could_ kill them. Or lean on someone to kill them for her, as was more her style. Without their testimony, the lawsuit would fizzle away into nothing, and she could keep her ill-gotten gains. But it wouldn't be without cost. Her name was all over that newly filed paperwork. She'd been served. She had motive now. Even the most bumbling police detective would follow that up. Even if they could never make it stick, killing them would still invite a fuckload of police scrutiny she didn't want. Anyway you looked at it, Ariel was not coming out clean.

If she wanted the lawsuit to go away without any unnecessary bloodshed, she'd have to make a deal. And she'd had have to step out from behind her phalanx of armed lackeys to do it.

It was a good plan, Emma had to give credit where credit was due. It was a very good plan. Supposing it worked.

But if Killian was confident, it didn't show. Sure, he made a good show of playing it cool. His face retained that same look of steely resolve he'd worn since getting off the phone, and if his earlier revelations were still playing on his mind, he didn't let on. And once every couple of circuits he'd make some reassuring platitude.

"No need to worry, Swan."

"We'll get it sorted, Swan."

But the way he'd burned through an entire pot of coffee on his own? Or practically wore out the carpet in front of Emma's desk with all his pacing? Well, that spoke volumes.

It was just past five when they both heard it, the rather distinctive sound of glass smashing against concrete. The exterior door didn't have a lock on it. According to Killian, it used to. But after the laundromat downstairs started attracting transient types, the locks began disappearing with alarming regularity. Too often for the building manager to bother with, which explained why most of Emma's mornings seemed to include stepping over a prone figure or two on the stairs.

Since they were expecting company, in lieu of an intercom, or any other legitimate method of security, Emma had placed an empty beer bottle behind the door to act as an early warning system should anyone try to climb the stairs. Sure, it was lazy. But it was effective enough.

At the sound, both of them tensed, eyes trained towards the door. That one, at least, had a deadbolt. A fact Emma was immensely grateful for as she heard the stairs groaning under the weight of their visitors. Visitors. They weren't alone. Two people, from the sounds of it.

Emma wasn't sure she took a breath the whole time it took for them to make their way up to the landing. She hadn't even noticed herself getting up from her chair, or reaching across to take Killian's hand, clutching his fingers in hers so tight her knuckles went white.

The two visitors paused on the landing a moment. Emma took comfort in the fact the footfalls weren't especially heavy. These weren't two hulking dudes in army boots, at least, she didn't think so. And there hadn't been an immediate spray of machine gun fire through the door. That was always a win.

So when there came a knock at the door, three business-like raps in short succession, Emma didn't protest too much when Killian unclenched his hand from hers to answer it. He did so slowly, one hand trailing back to grip the handle of the handgun tucked into his waistband, as he checked the peephole. He made a noise then, almost an exhale, and relaxed his grip on the gun as he disengaged the deadbolt, opening the door wide.

Two people entered. The girl, red-haired and haughty, Emma knew already. Ariel Roberts. The world's worst secretary. The other guy Emma wasn't so sure about. He wasn't muscle; he was too old for that. The guy appeared to be in his sixties, at least, but he wore it well. Rich, in other words. He wore a custom grey suit and a nice watch, but nothing too flashy, which meant he was smart too. There was something familiar about him. Like Emma had seen him somewhere before. But it was the briefcase he was carrying that really got Emma's attention.

Maybe they weren't going to die after all.

"So," said Ariel, as she took a few more steps into the center of the room, giving the tired furnishings a disdainful once-over. "I see you haven't redecorated at all."

"Well," Killian drawled, coming across to stand beside Emma, arms crossed over his chest. "Can't say there's been too much cash left in the budget for meaningful renovations lately. Can't imagine why."

She smiled a little, her eyes settling on him. "You were always funny. Not quite as clever as you thought you were, but funny. I missed that."

"I can't say I missed anything about you, lass."

Ariel was smirking now. "Well, some of us just aren't cut out for the assistant trade. I'm much more of a… self-starter these days." Her gaze flicked from her former employer, to Emma. "But you certainly seem to have gotten thriftier around here. You found yourself a replacement for me, and for Milah, all in one."

She could feel Killian tense beside her, having finally struck a nerve. Given their conversation earlier, it seemed like a low blow.

Things might have deteriorated from there, had Ariel's well-heeled guest not made a deliberate display of clearing his throat, reminding everyone that he was still in the room. Looking momentarily chastened, Ariel's face quickly became impassive.

"My name is Albert Spencer," the man said, taking a step forward. "I believe we spoke yesterday over the phone, on an unrelated matter?" There was a flare of recognition in Killian's eyes as he stepped forward to meet the man's outstretched hand in a firm handshake.

"Of course," Killian replied, a little stiffly.

 _Albert Spencer._ Suddenly Emma realized why the man had seemed so familiar to her. Emma knew the name. Hell, it was kind of hard not to. It was plastered on the side of a building downtown. The same building they'd spent half the morning in, going over legal paperwork. Albert Spencer was Tink's boss, and a name partner. But even more than that, he was a legend. A shark. She'd even covered several of his cases, defending some of Massachusetts's most prominent people.

And he sure as hell hadn't shown up in Killian's day planner.

"Yesterday?" Emma prompted, giving Killian a meaningful look.

The attorney turned to her with a congenial smile. "Ah, you must be Ms. Swan. I used to follow your column in the  _Sentinel._ Some truly excellent investigative work. Especially in regards to the inquiry behind the police investigation into the Green Line Murders. The wrongly accused was acquitted, I believe, thanks in part to your work?"

Emma blinked, momentarily stunned. It had been months,  _months,_ since anyone had so much as acknowledged she had been a journalist, let alone that she'd been any good at it. And that  _Albert Spencer_ knew who she was?

"Err... yeah. That was me." She shook his proffered hand, cursing herself internally for her inarticulate response.

"Well," he said, looking between the three of them, "I'm hoping today has a similarly agreeable resolution. Should we sit?" He suggested, waiting for Ariel's nod before he took a seat. It was strange to see the man defer to her. Not just because he looked old enough to be her grandfather. But also because he'd been featured in Forbes magazine, and Ariel was little more than a two-bit thug. How someone with his reputation had gotten caught up in defending the Italian mob and their various hangers on, Emma wasn't sure she wanted to know. It did explain how Ariel's boyfriend had gotten away with murder, though.

The two of them sat down in the designated visitors chairs in front of Killian's desk, Albert Spencer with his briefcase resting on his knees.

Warily, Killian slid to his side the desk, and took a seat in his own chair, his posture unnaturally rigid, thanks in part to the firearm digging into his spine. Emma wheeled her own chair to sit beside him, Ariel smirking at the loud squeal of the chair as it took her weight.

"So," began the lawyer, clearly the one in charge of facilitating matters. "It is my understanding that you've filed a lawsuit against my client, Ms. Roberts, for the alleged theft of client information and case files, is that right?"

 _Alleged._ That was cute. If there was anything alleged about it, Ariel wouldn't have dragged a top-shelf attorney down to a shabby office on Mass Avenue during cocktail hour to deal with it.

"Aye," Killian said through gritted teeth, glaring daggers at Ariel.

"Alright," said Spencer, shrugging off the room's tension. "Well, rather than wait for this to go to trial, my client was rather hoping we could resolve the matter with a mutually beneficial agreement. Today."

He snapped the briefcase open on his lap, and Emma saw Killian reach reflexively behind his back, but all that he pulled out was a sheaf of papers, which he quickly spread out across Killian's desk.

"This is the amount that you were seeking in damages," Spencer said, pointing at a point on the paper nearest Killian. "And this," he said pointing to another number below it, "Is what we believe to be a fair compromise."

To his credit, Killian's face gave nothing away. He examined the paper with a cool detachment, and then looked back to the lawyer, as if utterly bored.

"I think we'd do better going to trial."

And to their surprise, the lawyer chuckled. "You're right of course. Ms. Bell is a hell of an attorney. If anyone could deliver you a large settlement it would be her. But I think you're failing to take into account a particular aspect of the Trade Secrets Act. Now, it can hardly be considered stealing if reasonable efforts haven't been made to keep the information secret in the first place. And I myself have first-hand knowledge that Jones Investigations can be fairly..." He made a face, as if swallowing down a particularly difficult pill, "...lax, in that regard."

The grin on Ariel's face was triumphant, but Emma almost missed it, too busy grabbing Killian by the elbow and leaning over to hiss in his ear. "What the fuck is he talking about?"

He didn't answer, but there was no missing the way the color seemed to have drained from his face.

"Killian?" She tried again.

This was bad. Very, very bad. Not quite  _find yourself at the bitey end of a shotgun_ bad, but also not ideal. The second number, Ariel's "fair compromise", wasn't enough to cover August's debt. If they couldn't pull this out of the fire, August wouldn't be safe. No one would be safe.

"There's also the small matter of the embezzlement," Killian added, out of nowhere. "We're still sifting through the records but I believe it's somewhere in the ballpark of ten thousand dollars."

The grin on Ariel's face vanished in an instant, replaced with a gobsmacked expression. Emma's probably didn't look any less surprised.

"Bit of a slapdash effort, lass, diverting funds away from my pension fund," he tutted. Then to Spencer, "We were thinking of bringing about criminal charges, once we'd gone over everything a few more times, but I suppose if we reach a mutually beneficial agreement today, I could be persuaded to... reconsider."

The lawyer's brows rose in surprise, glancing over at his client, who had fixed Killian with a stare so cold, it sent chills down Emma's spine. "What do you want, Killian?"

* * *

Emma patiently waited until she heard the exterior door swing closed, the lawyer and his client gone from the premises for good, before she made her move.

Taking it slow or not, Emma wasn't quite able to stop herself from wrapping her arms around Killian's shoulders, letting loose a shriek of joy, and then surprise as he lifted her briefly off the ground, the celebratory mood catching.

"You did it!" she exclaimed, once he'd let her back down. "How did you do it?"

"You've never actually been around for one of my poker nights have you, Swan?"

"No..." She'd walked in on one or two, but she'd never stuck around to watch. Sooner or later she knew August would ask her to stake him, and she avoided situations of that kind as best she could.

"Let's just say," he teased, "I'm rather good at the whole bluffing thing. When I don't have you around to catch me, that is." Emma paused to consider the implications of that.

"You mean... the embezzlement thing? You what?  _Guessed_? Please  _do not_ tell me you just pulled that out of nowhere!"

He shrugged. "Not out of nowhere, no. I had a sneaking suspicion she'd taken more than just the files. My accountant mentioned some  _irregularities._ Now I know for sure."

"Do we even have an accountant?" Emma asked, suddenly distracted.

"Will," Killian replied, as if the answer should be obvious.

" _Rabbit Hole Will_? And you wonder why we're pretty much bankrupt? And what was that Spencer said before? About being lax with keeping secrets?"

"Swan," he said, grabbing her by the shoulders, and shaking her a little, his grin almost infectious. "Swan, I think you're rather missing the point here. The fact is, we won the day."

"Yeah, but-"

"Emma!" He shouted, lifting his arms into the arm. "We won!" It was then that Emma looked up and saw him. Really saw him. He looked so goddamned happy. Happier perhaps than she'd seen him in the last couple of months, cheeks flushed red with exaltation, blue eyes shining.

 _Fine._  He could have his moment.

"We kinda did, didn't we?" she said with an answering grin.

"Aye, love. So how about we go and retrieve your brother from his safe house, and see about a celebratory drink?"

"Cocktails?" Emma asked, goading him.

It was a testament to his mood that he was still smiling. "Whatever your dark little heart desires, Swan."


	21. It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Xmas

It was not exactly the joyous return to the status quo that Emma had been envisioning. Sure, the day was won, the villain vanquished. Or at the very least, placated. She and Killian were free to go home and begin the messy business of learning how to be a little less screwed-up, without imminent threat of maiming or torture.

Except, of course, for one teensy, tiny detail.

 _August._  What to do about August?

The awkward began to creep around the edges on the drive out to the suburbs, and by the time they'd gotten their new house guest safely bundled into the backseat on the drive back, it might as well have been a fourth passenger. It was the first time the three of them had all been in the same place, at the same time since August's less-than-auspicious return. And Emma felt the distance between who the three of them had been before, and who the three of them were now, growing with every passing mile.

It wasn't like how it was before August had left. Before, there had been a definite  _them_ , Killian and August, the boys as the perennial odd couple, occupying their usual booth at The Rabbit Hole some nights as they wound down from day after day of professional disappointment with darts and dark liquor. And there had been August and Emma, who flitted in and out of each others lives, relying on the apartment they shared to keep them anchored to one another. Sometimes Emma joined the two of them in their little friendship bubble, sometimes not, but there had always been a clear delineation between the two worlds.

Now there was some... overlap.

On the surface, they didn't seem so different. August still griped about Killian's music selection from the backseat. Killian griped back. It was their way. But when Emma went to adjust the heat and Killian went to up the volume on the stereo at the same time, and their hands collided somewhere in the middle in a tangle of sparks, followed by hurried apologies, and much throat-clearing, well, there were no denying the facts.

"Is it just me, or did you two just re-enact a scene from some god-awful teenage vampire movie?" August asked with interest, leaning into the space between their seats, taking in reddened cheeks and shifting glances. "Something you'd like to share with the class?"

"I'm a vampire?" Killian offered, pasting on a sarcastic grin, though Emma could see the whites of his knuckles as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

"No..." August said languidly, gaze traveling over the both of them with more scrutiny than Emma would like. She resisted the urge to shift in her seat. "That's not it. Something is different here." He tapped his chin thoughtfully.

"You watch teenage vampire movies now?" Emma asked, an attempt to derail his train of thought.

"What? Like you don't have it on DVD?" August retorted. Her shot at the moral high ground busted, she settled for avoiding Killian's eye as he glanced across delightedly, a veritable windfall of teasing ammunition having fallen unexpectedly into his lap. August shrugged. "One of the magazines I worked for had a bunch of free tickets. I wrote a review. Somehow I don't think you can claim a similar excuse, hmm?"

"The soundtrack is really good," Emma mumbled, turning to look out the window.

"Nice deflection, by the way," August said, gripping Emma's headrest to lean even further forward. "But I'm on to you.  _Both of you,_ " he clarified with a significant raise of his eyebrows in Emma's direction. And then he turned his attention to Killian. "And don't think I've forgotten that right hook I got as a welcome home present, either," he muttered, slumping back into his head to rub his jaw.

"Nor should you," Killian grumbled from the driver's seat, glaring back at August in the rear-view mirror. "Justly deserved, that one. And you'd best remember that."

"I'm sorry, what right hook?" Emma cut in, looking from one to the other. Now it was her turn to be ignored. She rounded on Killian, with his oh-so-innocent face on, figuring him for the easier target. "You hit him? You  _promised_ you wouldn't hit him!"

"Nooo," he corrected, keeping his eyes on the road. "I merely promised you'd get first crack at him. Which you did. I'm assuming that business with the fire extinguisher counts?"

"Yeah, but I didn't mean it!"

"That was your first mistake, love," he said, giving her a sideways grin. "Don't worry, I went easy on him. Does he look grievously injured to you?"

Which was precisely the moment August chose to lean forward again, giving the two of them a wary glance that brought the banter to a shuddering halt. "Whatever this is," he said with a foreboding tone, indicating between them, "I don't like it."

The rest of the drive had been a silent one.

* * *

August took the couch in Killian's apartment, evidently preferring _eau de cat pee_  over the prospect of Smee as a potential bedmate. And while he looked for where his next paycheck was coming from, that's where he would stay.

And Emma?

She spent a lot more time in the office.

"You know, love," Killian called over from his own desk, where he sat tossing his stapler in the air and catching it again with a kind of affected boredom, "If I were some kind of detective, I might think you're somewhat less than pleased to have August back."

"Some kind of detective?" she repeated, with a raised eyebrow.

"Aye," he responded with a grin. "Like when he invited you to the Rabbit Hole after work yesterday, and you said you felt unwell?"

"So?"

"Darling, I found an entire stash of Reese's Peanut Butter Cup wrappers in the bin this morning. No way were you actually ill. And then earlier today? When he stopped by to have lunch with you, and you fobbed him off saying you had work to do?"

Emma crossed her arms over her chest. "Yes?"

"Emma." He stood then, replacing his stapler, and coming over to perch on the edge of Emma's desk, like some kind of irritating paperweight. "It's nearly Christmas, and the only open case we have is currently holidaying in Gran Canaria, with the very wife who hired us to tail him. We aren't busy. In fact, we're so far from busy I'm taking the day off tomorrow to find us a tree."

"A tree? Like a Christmas tree?"

"Aye, Swan. A Christmas tree. You know, like normal people have in their houses this time of year?" he cajoled, knocking his shoulder against hers.

"I uh... I guess I figured we weren't doing that this year," Emma mumbled.

Thanksgiving had certainly not been anything to write home about, though the peace and quiet had been welcome at the time. She somehow doubted they could replicate that, what with August crowding the place. Not to mention that feeling Emma now got sometimes in the apartment, where the hallway between his bedroom and hers seemed both unbearably wide, and also, nowhere near wide enough.

Shaking herself from that thought, she glanced up to see Killian looking positively aghast. "What? And skip the best part of the whole Yuletide ordeal? Not bloody likely."

"You're serious?"

"As a heart attack. I'm getting a bloody tree. And if you're so set on avoiding August, you can come."

"I'm not-"

"Spare me. You can lie to yourself, love, but you can't lie to me. I'm not saying you have to forgive him right away. God knows, he doesn't deserve it. But he  _is_ your brother, and sooner or later you will have to clear the air."

Emma had rather been planning on  _later._

"Says the man who won't go to London to visit his  _own_ brother?"

"Argh," he said, clutching dramatically at his chest. "A defensive strike. But you know a trip across the Atlantic is out of the question, finances being what they are. Besides, the tosser is off to Sweden anyway to visit the in-laws. So check and mate."

"Fine!" Emma conceded, hands raised in the air. "I'm mad at August. Sometimes I'm so mad I want to wring his scrawny neck while he sleeps. Happy?"

"The truth will set you free, Swan."

"Oh, fuck off. So where's this tree place, anyway?"

* * *

Emma had suffered several shocks over the past few months, but the discovery that Killian seemed to view the onslaught of the holiday season with all of the enthusiasm of Buddy the Elf come December 22nd had been the real kicker.

Emma herself was not a Christmas kind of person.

The way she'd grown up… well let's just say her upbringing had been no Norman Rockwell painting.

Sure, there had been presents sometimes, turkey even. Midnight mass and snowball fights in the playground. All delivered by self-congratulatory social workers and foster families, wrapped in tacky holiday sweaters.

Mostly she remembered the dolls. There had been ten of them, all up. And every year, the very same one somehow, like they had a warehouse somewhere just stacked to the ceiling with them, the perfect generic gift for any poor orphan girl aged 3-13.

Emma had always hated dolls.

She'd asked Santa for a bike one year, like her foster sister's. Shiny and yellow, with a sunflower stenciled onto the basket. The next year she'd tempered her expectations and revised that down to roller blades. No roller blades were forthcoming.

Even then, Emma had her suspicions. Her worst fears were confirmed the year after, when she found a whole stack of painstakingly addressed Letters to Santa tossed carelessly into the dumpster when she went to take out the trash. The envelopes had still been sealed. She was 7.

And still, the dolls arrived. Year after year, the same fucking doll. Taunting her. Teasing her. A constant reminder of how fake all of it was. The cheer. The camaraderie. All of it just a cheesy photo op, swallowed down with cold leftovers and watered down gravy.

Killian Jones, on the other hand, did not prescribe to this view.

Which was how Emma somehow found herself riding shotgun on the I-93 North, on her way to pick out her first actual Christmas tree.

* * *

"I still can't believe you dressed your own dog in a Christmas sweater."

"You say that," Killian said, letting his arm rest against his door just so as he shot her a glance. "But you forget, I follow you on Instagram. There's no taking the moral high ground here, love. By my last count, 12 of your last 15 posts were of that bloody dog."

"Yeah, because I'm boring. Not because I have an Etsy addiction and need to be stopped!"

But instead of the laugh she was going for, instead Killian's jaw seemed to clench, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel.

"Umm... you okay?"

"Aye. Fine." He didn't sound fine.

"You... sure about that?"

"Aye. Only sometimes the urge to pull over and kiss you doesn't quite mesh with our agreement to cool things off. But it'll pass. Tell me something terrible about yourself. Your singing voice is particularly awful, is it not?"

Of all the things Emma might have suspected might be wrong, that was not it. And sure, it was awkward, trapped in the car as they were, but it was also flattering as hell.

"Uh, yeah," she agreed. "Like a bag of drowning cats. Would you like a demonstration?"

"Please."

So she turned up the radio and sang along with Bruce Springsteen about Santa Claus coming to town. After a while, Killian's death grip on the wheel loosened, and he joined in for the chorus of Last Christmas, his singing voice putting Emma's to shame.

"Were you ever in a band?" Emma asked as the song ended, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"For a bit," Killian admitted. "I thought it might help me get a girlfriend."

"It worked, didn't it?"

A sly grin crossed his face. "For one glorious summer, until she left me for the drummer."

"Fucking drummers, man."

"Slimy bastards," he agreed.

She caught his eye as he glanced across towards her side of the car. "I'm having a really good time."

A flash of surprise, as if that was the last thing he expected her to say. "Aye. Me too."

"Do you think-" She hesitated.

"Emma?"

"Do you think maybe we could...  _un_ cool things? If we took it slow?" She felt like a dick for asking. It had been  _her_ idea, after all. And here she was, all of three days later, practically salivating over the man all over his nice upholstery, just because he'd sung along to a Wham! song.

"How slow?" Killian asked at last, his words careful.

"There's a rest stop coming up in 5 miles. We could see how far ten minutes gets us?"

To her surprise, the Charger lurched forward, Emma clutching her seat for dear life as Killian pressed down hard on the accelerator.

"I'm taking that as a yes?" she called, over the roar of the engine.

He looked back in her direction and smiled a broad smile. "That's a 'fuck yes', Swan."

* * *

Alright, so it had been twenty minutes.

There was just something about making out with someone in the front seat of a car, gear shift pressed awkwardly between you, that was just so tragically high school. There would definitely be a bruise. But as she spied the goofy grin painting Killian's face as he turned down the gravel road to the Christmas tree farm, a grin which matched the own ridiculous one she was sporting in the rear view, she couldn't much find the energy to care.

The pickings were slim, so close to Christmas, but Killian, determined to knock a couple of bucks off the asking price, had insisting on cutting down his own tree.

"Haven't you ever wanted to shout 'Timber'?" he asked, as they wended their way past row after row of reject trees.

"You mean, have I ever aspired to be a lumberjack? No, funnily enough, I haven't. Have I ever wanted to  _sleep_  with a lumberjack, though... You really should have worn plaid for this. I could have used that image." She was rewarded for that comment by a quick kiss, and a wicked grin.

"Maybe next year, if you're good."

Next year. _Christ_. And yet, warm with homemade apple cider and the idea of Killian as a lumbersexual, Emma found she didn't hate the idea.

A few more feet and Killian stopped abruptly, causing Emma to run into the back of him.

"This is it, Swan," he said, hands gesturing in front of him. "This is the one."

It was by far the crummiest Christmas tree Emma had ever seen. Misshapen. Discolored. Destined forever to be unchosen.

"Really? Of all the Christmas trees, in all the world, you've got to have this one?"

"Now, now," Killian chided, kneeling at its gnarled base, saw in hand. "I know you're a sucker for a pretty face, but try to imagine you're this tree. You're not quite as tall as your friends. Not quite as good at sports. But what you lack in looks, you more than make up for with heart."

"It's a tree," Emma reminded him.

"Aye, and it's the ugliest tree in the lot, and thus it shall be mine," he declared, taking his first experimental cuts. "Only underdogs are welcome at a Jones family Christmas."

"Or a Jones Booth Swan family Christmas?"

"Or that," he replied between gritted teeth, increasing the tempo of his cuts. "Besides," he said, cutting through the trunk like a knife through butter. "You know Smee is going to wreak havoc on it either way. Might as well save ourselves the cash. Alright, this is it, Swan. Your only chance to say it. Are you ready?"

Humoring him, Emma cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted as loud as she could, "TIIIIIMBER!"

The sound of it seemed to echo across the entire valley, until it was replaced by an almighty crack, and the tree fell in one smooth whoosh onto the ground, covering Killian in a shower of snow and pine needles as he knelt triumphant beside it.

"That's my girl."

* * *

It took half an hour to drag it back to the car, and twice as long to get it properly strapped onto the roof, and even then, the top of it dangled dangerously low across the front windshield.

"You're going to kill us," Emma predicted.

"Well, at least you'll die in service to the commercialization of Christmas," Killian quipped, holding her door open for her. "What more noble death could there be?"

But all joking aside, he'd taken it easy on the drive back. So much so that August was already home by the time they burst into the apartment some hours later, cheeks still ruddy from cold, hands unthinkingly clasped.

"Well, well, well," August said, springing up from the couch like cat who'd just caught sight of a mouse. "What do we have here?"

Emma stopped dead in the doorway, her smile still frozen on her lips.

"I uh... we uh..." She let her hand slide out of Killian's grasp.

"A Christmas tree," Killian supplied, as though nothing were at all amiss. "And we've had a hell of a time getting it up three flights of stairs. Give us a hand, will you?"

But August didn't move. He just looked between them, from Emma's guilty expression to Killian's affected nonchalance.

"My sister?" August asked, turning to Killian. " _Really?_ "

"Aye," Killian huffed, dragging the tree further through the door. "Really."

"For how long?"

"Umm, you know I'm standing right here, right?" Emma chimed in, waving her hand in front of her brother's face.

"And it never occurred to you this is something I might want to know?" August continued, undeterred.

"Oh yes, because  _you're_ so bloody good at keeping us apprised of  _your_ movements," Killian snarled, the facade of friendliness falling completely. "Forgive me for not mentioning anything, when you wouldn't so much as answer a fucking email for half a bloody year."

"That doesn't mean you can sleep with my sister!"

"Still. Right. Here," Emma waved, rounding on her brother. "And  _fuck you._ You never got a say in who I dated or why, but you especially don't now. You let me down, August. You really did, and I'm still pissed as hell at you. So yeah, I might have fallen for your best friend, my bad. Maybe the timing wasn't great, but so what? I could do a hell of a lot worse, and you  _know_  I have. So either help with the fucking tree, or go back to the ice box we used to call an apartment. Either way, shut the fuck up with your bro code bullshit, and get out of my face."

Maybe it made Emma a bad person, but she enjoyed the stunned silence that followed, a range of emotions flitting across her brother's face. In the end he seemed to settle on sheepishness.

"Alright then," he said, arms crossed over his chest.

"So we're good?" Emma asked, looking between the two men. "Everything's good now? We can cancel the gunfight at the O.K. Corral?"

"Fine," August relented.

"Killian?" She asked, turning to him.

"Fallen for?" he repeated, one eyebrow raised salaciously, a grin stretching wide on his lips.

Ah.  _Fuck._ Had she really just said that?

She snapped her fingers in front of his face. "Eyes on the prize, Jones. Are you going to play nice with my idiot brother?"

"As you wish," he said, ducking into an overdramatic bow, topped with a poor attempt at a wink.

"I hate you both," Emma declared, throwing up her hands in despair, and stalking down the hallway away from the pair of them. "And where the fuck do you keep your decorations?"


	22. Love In A Cold Climate

Emma Swan had gotten some pretty crappy letters in her time.

There was the time an aggrieved reader had sent her an envelope at the  _Sentinel,_  stuffed with a suspicious white power. That one had necessitated a shutdown of the entire building by counter-terrorism, and a pretty invasive physical exam from CDC officials in HAZMAT suits. Baking soda, as it turned out.

Or even just the post-it note she'd found stuck to the side of the refrigerator two days after Christmas, informing her that August had drank the last of the milk, and could she please go the store for some more, as he was in the middle of a pivotal scene in his novel and didn't want to interrupt his flow?

But the email she received in her inbox on January the 10th? That one left her reeling.

* * *

"Emma?"

She shut her laptop lid immediately, looking up to find her ne'er-do-well brother lingering by her bedroom doorway, looking all kinds of suspicious. "Uh, creeper much? It's called knocking. You should try it."

"I did knock. Twice. I've been very good with the knocking ever since the incident with the shower and the thing we agreed to never, ever talk about again."

Emma could feel the blush creeping up her cheeks at the reminder. Let it be said, sharing an apartment with your boyfriend  _and_ your brother? Kinda awkward. Especially when said brother didn't tend to announce himself before entering rooms that were otherwise...  _occupied_.

"You wanted to talk?" Emma asked quickly, tossing her laptop aside to give August her full attention.

But for some reason he didn't take her up on her unspoken invitation, continuing to dither in the hallway, hands buried in his pockets and eyes lowered to the floor.

"What is it?" Emma asked, narrowing her eyes. "Did you break the toaster again?

"Toaster is fine. I uh... can I sit?"

_Jesus. Maybe he had cancer._

She patted the comforter beside her, and after a moment's hesitation, the mattress dipped as he settled his weight beside her.

"Is everything alright?" Emma asked, looking him over for obvious signs of ill-health. She thought he looked pale, but it was kinda hard to tell, what with the beard and all.

"I, uh... I got a job."

Of all the things she had expected him to say, that was  _not_  one of the things.

"Oh," Emma said with a relieved laugh. "That's great! The way you were acting, I thought you were terminal or something. What's the job?"

"Assistant editor at a small magazine."

Emma gave a low whistle. "Wow. Sounds perfect for you. So... why the long face?"

"The job's in LA."

_A nuclear warhead might have had a softer landing._

"As in  _Los Angeles_ , LA?" she asked, her voice rising a few unnecessary octaves.

"That's the one." His tone was bright, but when his eyes finally lifted to meet hers, she could see every tumultuous feeling that was currently swimming around in her stomach reflected back at her.

" _Oh_."

"Yeah."

Silence fell between them, the suffocating kind.

"So I guess we're not renewing our lease, then," Emma said, a little snippily.

"C'mon, Emma. Did you really want to anyway? I mean, as weird as it is, you and Killian seem to have a pretty good thing going here."

He got an elbow to the kidneys for that one.

"Yeah, but this was just supposed to be a temporary fix, until you came back and I could afford groceries again. I wasn't supposed to  _move in_ with the guy. We've been together for like a minute!"

"Em," he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I know you like to overthink everything, and you're always the first one to bail when things get too serious, but can we be honest with each other for a sec?"

"Seems like someone already is," Emma mumbled.

"Emma, you've gotta face it: You've already  _moved in_  with the guy. Hell, you're practically married."

" _Married?_ " Emma snorted. "Yeah, no."

"Oh, really?" August said, one eyebrow raising in challenge. "Exhibit A: Christmas. You fell asleep on the couch together watching  _It's A Wonderful Life_."

"I was tired!" Emma protested. "You don't know how long it takes to decor-"

"Exhibit B!" August interrupted, holding a warning finger up in front of her face. "Breakfast. Every morning he cooks you breakfast, and every morning you two eat off each others' plates like a pair of gooey-eyed savages."

"He likes cooking!"

"Which brings us to Exhibit C!" August declared, ignoring her entirely. "You bought booties for his dog."

"He gets cold!"

"I know it's scary, Emma. But facts are facts, and the facts are these: You two? Married."

"Why did I used to like you again?" Emma wondered aloud.

"Don't get me wrong. This whole thing has mentally scarred me for life. Therapy will be needed. A whole boatload of therapy. But you were right. He's not the  _worst_ guy you've ever dated. Not like that furniture guy. What was his name?"

"Walsh," Emma supplied.

"Yeah, that guy. What a dick. Anyway, where was I going with this?"

Emma listed them off on her fingers. "Therapy? Things seen cannot be unseen?"

"Oh, yes," August said, hitching himself back onto his train of thought. "Killian. Right. I mean, sure, the cleaning thing is a little weird, but I really am glad he was here for you when I wasn't. And I'm glad you let him. Kinda surprised, but mostly glad."

"Well, that's kind of your fault, isn't it? I mean, if you'd never wired him that fifty bucks in the first place, I might never even have seen him."

August blinked. "Fifty bucks?"

"Yeah, the fifty bucks you wired him from Cambodia to come and check on-". At the blank look on his face, comprehension dawned. "You never wired him money to come check on me, did you?"

August shifted guiltily. "Fraid not."

" _That sneaky son of a bitch!_ "

"I feel like I might like to recant," August said, as Emma rose to her feet, fists clenching at her sides. "Is it too late to recant?"

"Yeah. Sorry, I've gotta-" She said, indicating towards her door with her thumb.

"Kick ass and take names?" August suggested, seeming more amused by the minute.

She almost made it a step, before pausing. "I'm really proud of you, by the way," she said, leaning forward to brush a kiss to the top of his head. "And I want to hear all about this new job. Just as soon as I have a little chat with our dear Mr Jones."

"Married!" August called after her, but Emma was already out the door.

* * *

It didn't take her long to find him. He was exactly where he was supposed to be, homeward bound after a lap around the park, Smee trailing behind in his little sweater and booties. Even from a distance she could see when he spotted her approach, his eyebrows knitting together.

"Swan?" he asked, when she came into speaking range. "Is everything alright? August just sent me seven 911 texts. Is he-"

He didn't get any further than that. Not when Emma practically leapt into his arms and laid one on him, for God and everyone to see. He stumbled a little as he caught her, his woolen cap falling off onto the sidewalk. Smee's lead followed close behind, as he responded in kind.

"You're such a lying liar!" she said, as soon as he put her down some minutes later.

"I'm sorry?" he asked, leaning over to pick it up his hat and the lead.

"You will be sorry in a minute," Emma said, taking the cap from his hands and beating him lightly around the shoulders with it.

"I'm confused. Are you happy with me or are you angry with me? Because I really can't tell."

"I can't believe-"  _Whack._  "You used-"  _Whack._  "My own superpower against me!"

He had the audacity to be surprised by this news. "I did?"

"You know my superpower only works when I can see you! August wired you fifty bucks, huh?"

At which point the penny finally dropped, and Killian's look of affronted innocence morphed into something altogether more sheepish. "Ah."

"Yes,  _ah_ ," she repeated. "All of this," she said, indicating between them with the hat, "based on a lie!"

"A white lie," Killian amended, grabbing his cap back and pulling it on again. "For the common good, I'm sure you'd agree?"

"I love you."

It hadn't been what she'd meant to say. She had been going to say something about badly laid foundations, or some other metaphor about rotten tree roots or something. But at the last second, she'd caught sight of his expression. The soft one that he always had when she was gearing up for a good rant, long-suffering, but fond. And the words had simply... slipped out.

He looked as shell shocked as she did. "I..." His jaw had actually fallen open. Like a cartoon character. He hastily shut it, before clearing his throat. "So, to be clear, you're... not  _actually_  angry with me?"

Emma shook her head, a smile forming on her lips as she took a step closer.

"You're... in love with me?"

Emma made a non-committal shrug, but when he swayed closer she nodded, her smile growing wider still.

"Bloody hell, you're impossible," he said, but it didn't stop him from snaking an arm around her waist and leaning down for another kiss.

It was Emma who finally broke them apart, her hands against his chest. "So, to be clear, I'm not crazy, right? You're in this with me?"

"Emma, don't you know?" he said, leaning closer so that his freezing nose brushed her own. "You're completely crazy. But I'm kind of hot for that."

She slapped his chest, but he merely grinned a salacious grin. "Of course I'm in this with you, Swan. I know things haven't exactly been easy these past few months, but they've been a million times better for having you by my side. Even with your, quite frankly, ridiculous 'no intercourse' rule-"

Emma placed her hand over his mouth, shooting an apologetic glance at the woman who'd just overtaken them on the sidewalk, looking scandalised.

"Way to go, buddy," she said, taking him by the hand and leading him back down the block, Smee at his heels. But his answering smile was unrepentant.

"In summary, Emma Swan, I bloody love you. Just so you know!" he called out, so they managed to attract strange looks from a pair of cyclists riding past.

To his surprise, she stopped suddenly, so that he nearly crashed into her. "Nice to hear it," she said with an uncharacteristic grin, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek. "Want to hear something else nice?"

"From you, love? Always."

"August is moving out." His hand tightened over hers, his smile fading but she shook her head before she continued. "He got a job in LA. A really good job, actually."

"Swan..."

"I'm fine with it. Really. I think he needs it. A new city. A fresh start."

"And you are...?" He asked, eyes filled with uncertainty.

"I'm staying here. In the apartment. With you. If... you'll have me?" She asked, her bottom lip worrying between her teeth as she waited for his response.

What she maybe hadn't expected was for him to lift her off her feet, his grin broad and boyish as he gazed up into her eyes. "On every available surface."

"You're gross," she chided.

"But you're kind of hot for that."

"Shut up and kiss me, Jones, or you're not getting anything."

"As you wish." And he did.

* * *

August was packed up and out of the apartment by Thursday, and Emma's 'no intercourse' rule was broken five times before sunrise on Friday, but still there was something nagging at her. Something she still had left to do.

Their latest case was a simple enough one. Another poor chump accused of defrauding his insurance company. Only thing is, Emma was reasonably sure the guy was actually innocent this time around. Even so, they still had to make it look like they'd put the effort in, which meant far too much time spent in hire cars, video camera at the ready, whilst snacking on gummy worms and quizzing each other on clues for the crossword.

Technically speaking, this was not a two person job. But Emma had never been all that great at filing anyway, and diverting calls to her cell phone had hardly been the most arduous task. And the long stretches gave her time to muster the necessary courage to start the conversation she'd been avoiding for days.

"12 Down. Swagger. 5 letters."

Killian raised an eyebrow from behind his binoculars. "I don't swagger, Swan."

She snorted. "Sure you don't."

"Nor do I strut."

She consulted the page in front of her. "Strut. Strut fits!" she said, filling in the boxes. "Alright. Next one." She scanned the list of clues, her heart leaping into her throat as she read it. "29 Down. To... receive something that is offered."

"Accept?" Killian suggested, his attention still focused on their mark.

"Too many letters. Killian?"

Something in her tone must have given her away, because he set down the binoculars. "Swan?"

"I... got an email last week. With a job offer. A journalism job offer," she clarified.

Some kind of noise escaped Killian's throat, midway between a gasp and a sigh, but he did a good job of swallowing it down. "I had no idea you were still looking," he said, his voice heartbreakingly even.

"That's just it!" Emma said. "I wasn't. I haven't been. Not for months! But one of my old professors happened to mention my name to someone at the  _Globe_. One of their reporters was snatched up by the New York Times, so now they're looking for someone to fill the position kind of soon. Someone with experience, someone who's not afraid to rattle some cages."

"Sounds rather like you," he pointed out with a trace of amusement.

"Yeah, but..." Emma indicated around her. "Now I've got all this!"

"Emma, love," he said, reaching over to cup her face, thumb grazing her cheekbone. "Forget all of this for a moment. Do you want this job?"

She leaned into his touch, savoring her last moment of undecided bliss. "Of course I do. It's a dream job.  _It's the fucking Boston Globe!_  But-"

"Then take it," he said, leaning forward to press a kiss to her forehead. "29 Down."

_Trust him to be thinking of a crossword in her time of crisis.  
_

"But what about this?  _Us?_ "

"Well, I don't know about you, Swan. But I'd say  _us_ is on pretty firm ground. What with you coming home to my bed every night."

" _Our_  bed," Emma corrected. "We agreed that the new mattress means it now belongs to both of us. But what about Jones Investigations? I can't just leave!"

"Love, let's face it. I can hardly justify paying you as it is. You're clearly overqualified, and you've rarely been called on to actually answer a phone. You've been bloody useful on the investigation front, and we make quite the team, but it's not where your heart truly lies. I know that."

"But what if you need help?"

"Then I'll hire a temp. Surely not  _everyone_  from the agency is a Machiavellian villain in training?"

"Don't you even joke," Emma said, raising a finger in warning.

"Or maybe..." he said, leaning closer still, a rakish grin appearing. "On very special occasions. We could still go on stakeouts together," he said, the words whispered into her skin.

"You mean, like now?" Emma asked, tilting her head to give him better access to where he was trailing hot kisses down her neck.

"Precisely, Swan. Let's say we practice."

"You're the worst," Emma moaned, as she tossed the crossword puzzle book into the backseat.

"Aye, darling," Killian said, with a glint in his eye as he leaned back to remove his shirt. "But you love me for it."


End file.
